


stars, hide your fires.

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Romance, Blindfolds, Canon-Typical Violence, Detailed Warnings in Chapter Summaries, Dubious Consent in Ch. 12, F/M, I'm A Trash Can Not A Trash Can't, Identity Porn, Light BDSM, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Porn with Feelings, Rope Bondage, Secret Relationship, Starts as a Heatfic, not so much slowburn as two idiots standing around on fire, so much guilt it's a kink, strangers to fwb to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 65,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27473815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: “Then don’t let me see.” Her thumbs ghost over his parted lips, tender and so, so warm. “This can stay here, in this night, and neither of us will speak of it to anyone.”The Light clamors outside the closed shutters, inimitable and unconquered.“Take what you will, Exarch. I wouldn’t stop you.”A "what-if" in which F!WoL/Exarch start a physical relationship from the first night ofShadowbringers.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Reader, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 244
Kudos: 452
Collections: Final Fantasy XIV - Crystal Exarch x WoL Recommendations





	1. dark signs.

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHT KIDS, THIS DUMPSTER FIRE IS FINALLY HERE LMAO i'm so sorry it took so fucking long to get this published, i had about thirty mental breakdowns getting through this thing. i wasn't even expecting to publish this yet, but i think i'm personally impatient to have this thing out the door. i'm going to try to get out chapters approx. once a week, i have the first 12 mostly written but that's getting metered out so i can finish the rest of this fucking fic. i hope you enjoy my dumpster fire of a baby, it is near and dear to my heart.  
> thank you so much to [Starships](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starships/pseuds/Starships) and [witchfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchfall/pseuds/witchfall) for beta-reading and just being wonderful. 🖤  
> and thank you to everyone who has so patiently waited for this, i hope you enjoy. 🖤

_most days, you reach for safety,  
_ _remain calm, forget that you know me,  
_ _and when we met I could see dark signs,  
_ _alarm bells —  
_ _in your eyes._

|| dark signs — sleep token ||

* * *

G’raha Tia, Archon, Seeker of the Gryphon Tribe, accomplished historian, could not have possibly comprehended the enormity of his commitment when he decided to fulfill the once-lost dreams of Allag. 

Memory is a fickle thing. What seemed once insignificant is made paramount upon reflection, and what once seemed so critical is rendered meaningless in the face of clarity. He turned over his last words to her for over a century, a worry stone tucked into his pocket to grind into nothingness. Sentences stripped to their basest components, meaning psychoanalyzed and calculated ad infinitum.

Sharlayan scholars ascertain there are numbers the mind simply cannot comprehend, values which defy rationale. A Spoken mind cannot hope to understand what it means to watch two hundred years slip away in the blink of an eye. Words become flimsy imitations of that which is real, mere attempts to scratch the depths of wholly unattainable knowledge. 

A fool seeking to pluck the stars from the heavens. 

Still now, on the eve of her summoning to the First, the breadth of the cosmos waiting to be flattened in an instant and set adrift by time itself, G’raha Tia, the Crystal Exarch, Heir of Allag, knows he is far out of his depth—has _been_ out of his depth since the day his mismatched eyes opened for the first time.

But futility was no reason not to _try._

And if he had no faith in his own abilities, in Allag, the Crystarium, or in the indomitable will of Garlond Ironworks…

… he believed in _her._

* * *

The sky burns above you, lilac and menacing, as you sprawl on the forest floor. You think the disorientation might abate when you come to your feet, nausea creeping up your throat, but the light yawns before you. It bathes all the strange foliage in myriad shades of purple, casting a ghostly pallor across all it touches.

The wine the traveller hands you tastes like sulphur in your mouth, hellish and ashen. You swallow politely and try to smile, managing a pained grimace, all bared teeth and something like anguish on your face. 

The road stretching behind and ahead had never felt longer. 

The man sends you on your way, and you take up a stumbling, halting pace to the glimmering beacon piercing the heavens. Your headache abates step by step. You feel almost— _almost_ —normal by the time you meet who you now know as Captain Lyna of the Crystarium Guard. Her violet eyes, as if plucked from the gnarled oaks shading Lakeland itself, pass judgement and find you wanting. She seems ready to turn you away when quick, pounding footsteps catch her leporine ear, swiveling to track its progress.

And that is when you first meet the Crystal Exarch.

Perhaps the events that were to follow would make more sense in your mind if you had instantly felt alleviated by his presence, a thread of a bond lingering from wounds long ago afflicted. It was destiny, meant to be, your souls bonded in an inexpressible way.

There was no such flowery. 

You wanted to hate him. 

You were _ready_ to revile and rail against the man who had taken so much from you, his actions caused countless sleepless nights in terror for your closest friends. Their loved ones still ached to know when they would come home safely. You spat vinegar and revulsion at him, hackles raised for the fight to come. How would it feel, smashing your closed fist into the noble slope of his nose, bruising that friendly smile and watching the blood spill forth? 

But…

…it _was_ a beautiful mouth.

They say when a sense is blinded—sight, taste, smell—the others become heightened, acclimating in ways previously unthought. You were in full possession of your faculties, but the shadow of his hood frightened you, _intrigued_ you much in the same way of the masked Ascians.

If you could not discern his character from his eyes, you saw it in the strength of his hands, muscled and corded and lean from hard work. The breadth of his shoulders, strong enough to bear an entire city’s worth of despair without breaking, and the enigmatic smile that graced his lips.

He courteously offered you a tour of the city, and you accepted.

His height surprises you as you walk. Something about the gravitas of his face, that curious set of his moue, causes you to feel as if the Exarch should tower over you, intimidating, brutish and demanding like so many other masculine figures in your life. 

He seems less foreboding now than when you first met him, set against the landscape of this strange reality instead of that planetary void of nothingness. He is only a little taller than you, but his hood is pulled low over his face, so much so you suspect some manner of glamour.

But despite the ages of hurt in his voice, the heavy weight on his shoulders… 

He is kind. Patient. He treats you like a schoolchild; not with any sense of condescension, but with a genuine desire to help you, to see you learn and master your new surroundings. The way he teaches you about the ways of the First is rehearsed, as if he has long since practiced for this day, an actor having memorized his lines far in advance of the debut. 

Truthfully, you find his performance beguiling. 

“The Crystarium serves as something as a trade hub for Norvrandt,” he tells you as you stride through the Musica Universalis. Your eyes drift over bins of various sundry spices; saffron, lavender, turmeric, little jars of scarlet hibiscus shriveled up like rabbit hearts. You pluck one such jar from the shelves, turning it over in your hands. 

“Eulmore may be able to conduct exports, but not as many as willing to trade with them. And while Vauthry is loathe to admit it, the Eulmorans would not live in half as much luxury as they do without our exports.” 

“Much like the Source,” you murmur.

Perhaps he sees a shade of homesickness in your features; the Exarch hands you a tin of tea. You pop it open, smelling the fragrant leaves, bergamot, chamomile, and lavender blooming into the air. 

“Sleep is hard to come by, with the everlasting Light,” he says. “You’ll need this in the days to come.” 

Far later, after you had ground your hearts to dust against one another, you would be able pinpoint the pain in his voice as the first kernel of truth in all his lies. 

* * *

_“Just like that? Then… G’raha Tia is…?”_

Such a query was an inevitability, and he knew it. He had known it since the inception of this conspiracy, that one day she would so shrewdly ask him that question he feared the most, and he would be forced to reckon with her. 

There was a single moment when he thought, perhaps, it would evade her—the pure shock of her circumstances, with perhaps a touch of aether sickness, would render her numb to what was so painfully obvious.

He was a fool to underestimate her. 

He responds automatically, for a moment’s delay would surely draw her suspicions. 

“… I am not familiar with that name.” The lie is bitter and poorly done on his tongue. “Is there something I should know?” 

Nothing could have prepared him for his meager chapter in the epic of her life’s story recited back to him. 

She described G’raha Tia with more fondness than he deserved. She told of an eccentric historian who found his calling within those gemstone halls, the hint of a nostalgic smile on her lips as she spoke. Her words were barely audible above the din of the Exedra, and he wished he could push them out of reality entirely. Every syllable was a lash of steel-tipped cat o’ nines across his back, flagellation for his uncountable sins still to be done.

He wanted to ask her to say it all again— _slower,_ this time—let him linger on the way her tongue wrapped around his name, the sidelong glance she gave as she spoke his tale, the thread of _grief_ seeping into her timbre as she finished. He could almost hear the Dossal Gates closing around them again. 

The selfsame gates they stood before now, a universe away from where it all began. 

When he denies knowledge and urges her on towards the future, something flashes across her eyes. 

A dark sign, a warning of an oncoming storm.

An omen.

Even if she herself did not know it, a part of her still _knew._

It does not hurt to see her dig through his paltry lies, cutting at the heart of the matter with scalpel and rasp. 

It hurts knowing she cared, even still, to remember who he once was. 

* * *

He should have known something was horribly, _horribly_ amiss when he hesitated to let her leave his sight. 

It felt profane. _Wrong._ A choice never meant to be, watching her turn her back towards him, opening the door to her quarters, slipping inside and out of his sight. The only thing he could liken it to was turning his back on her to enter the Crystal Tower, but even then, the ghosts of his fathers had promised him fulfillment, glory, and salvation with every step he had taken to the Throne. A balm against the pain of leaving her presence then, but there is no such buffer here for him now. 

The Exarch bites his tongue hard enough to bleed. 

“Innkeep,” he says evenly, “will you send for me if anything goes awry? My friend is… _unused_ to the conditions which plague us, and I worry for her.”

“Of course, my lord.” It wasn’t an unsurprising ask of the custodian; when the Scions had dwelled in the Pendants, he had made the same request. 

But unlike then, he did not fervently hope to hear back from him during the night.

_Wicked white, I am truly losing it._

The alkaline taste of blood fills his mouth as he forces himself to take steady, measured steps back to the Dossal Gate. Ridiculous, absolutely preposterous, he had _less than no_ claim to her, and even if he did, surely the Warrior did not crave his company in the slightest. She would sooner turn to drink or sorrow than find comfort in his presence, a stranger who had ripped her from all she had ever known, robbed a world of its hero for the sake of yet another plight. 

He throws himself into his work that evening, foregoing food, seeking the comfort of distraction to smooth away all the ragged edges of him she so inflamed. 

Basking in her electrifying presence all evening had left him throbbing like a live wire, unable to stomach even food and, for once, eager for _combat_ of all things. He felt so unlike himself, he felt—

— _younger._

Younger than he’d felt in what seemed millennia, the edges between Spoken and crystalline no longer like shatterpoints across his body. Instead they felt hearty, whole, something of _value;_ no longer a weakness crippling him, but a weapon to be wielded.

Wielded by…

He finds himself standing up from his desk too suddenly, misjudging himself and spilling lukewarm tea across the stacks of papers and broken quills, cursing as he mops it up with the sleeve of his robe. 

“Clumsy as a porxie,” he mutters, groping for the overturned teacup. His fingers scrabble for it and it slides away, careening to the ground and scattering into a dozen fractured pieces across the gilded floor. 

He barks a laugh at his own ignominy. “You ridiculous, feckless, _moonaddled_ fool,” he lectures himself, sighing as he kneels down to clean his mess. 

He wonders, as he retrieves each ceramic sliver, what she was doing right then, what her nightly routine was. Did she pamper and preen before settling into the covers with a well-loved book? A romantic dream, but the Warrior he knew was pragmatic to the extreme. Perhaps she was practicing for the battles ahead, stripped to her smalls—

His crystal hand clenches around the shards, crumbling them to dust in his fist.

He would not— _could_ not think of her as such—

—not when so much was depending on his clarity of mind, and _gods_ she didn’t even _know_ who he was anymore— 

Something _lances_ through him, razes liquid fire through him, leaves nothing but scorched earth and complete ruin in its wake. 

He grinds his teeth against it, lockjawed and whimpering as a shudder rolls through him, the darkest parts of his mind stirring, scenting fresh blood in the air.

Sensing…

_…her, on her knees, those beguiling eyes never leaving his as she takes him into his mouth, his fingers fisting silken locks as his thighs tremble with the effort to resist shoving himself to the hilt into that lovely heat—_

Revulsion sweeps through him, renders him nauseous and reeling.

The ache between his legs is _intolerable._ He shoves a hand between his thighs, cock straining against his smalls, painfully obvious even with the generous folds of his robes. Feverish agony rips through him as he strokes himself, wanting only to take the edge off this unbearable pain.

What in the seven hells was happening to him?

He hadn’t been so much as ill once since he’d lashed himself to the Tower, that unquantifiable wellspring of power letting him extend himself beyond every mortal limit. He ate out of habit, slept only when his anxieties plagued him into submission, but this… 

…this was beyond his ken. 

His hips buck uselessly up into his hand, her name driven out of his lips as that torturous daydream drifts beyond his closed lids again and he is a conflagration, an unquenchable inferno, starved and _ravenous_ and burning alive—

A half-remembered memory, hazy, occluded by the dredges of time and more pressing concerns—

He has little time to dwell on the realization; there is a knock at his quarters, and he scrambles to his feet, knees reduced to water. 

“Enter,” he forces out, sinking down into his desk and pulling the hood over his features. 

“My lord.” The guard seems sheepish, as if he had drawn the short straw. “The innkeep sent me; he said you’d know what for?” 

_By the Twelve._

“Ah.” He forces a detached smile onto his features. “Thank you very much. That will be all.” 

He listens to the guard shuffle out of the Tower, his footfalls heavy and armor creaking. Eventually the massive doors fall shut behind him.

The fires within him rages ever onward, and the Exarch hangs his head in his hands.

* * *

Sleep feels like an exercise in futility. 

While the windows are frosted opaque with the intent of letting in little light, it is insufficient to break the circadian rhythm that nightfall provided you all your life on the Source. You cram the overstuffed pillow over your eyes, tossing and turning in the bedclothes. 

But, it wasn’t the light that was warding away sleep—

It was _everything_.

The sheer divide between the First and the Source felt inconsolable, a cleft you would never be able to repair—the amount of _time_ that had passed for the Scions felt horrifying, and you yearned to leave, on foot or otherwise, to see your friends again and reunite what had been sundered. 

But—

—the Exarch had bid you sleep.

And so, you are attempting the impossible. 

Polite though he had been, his words struck a deep-seated fear in you. Not only was the fate of Eorzea—rather, the Source—in your hands, but so was the First’s. An icy thrill of fear runs down your spine, adrenaline levin-like and acrid in your veins. Your body felt torn between fight and flight, and settled for utter stagnation instead.

Ardbert’s recounting of his own failings sits ill with you. There had never been a struggle you couldn’t overcome through the aid of your companions or sheer force of will, but you are afraid this will be the first. And the repercussions had never been greater; what would be left, if you failed? The fires of Ghimlyt Dark haunt you, the aftermath of the Dragonsong War. The plaintive screams of those singing their pain for those lost.

Grief claws its way up your throat, insidious and starved, bloodshot and stinging. 

The wind outside is howling, and you can no longer keep the plague of demons that haunt you at bay.

The first one slips past the ancient crack that fractured after the Bloody Banquet.

The second wriggles free of the gap between the bricks that split and gave way with the Vault. 

The third is more frigid than Ishgardian winters, the fourth as bittersweet as an autumnal lily; temporal, fleeting, effervescent. 

The rest bring you down, tear you to pieces, leave nothing in their wake.

How long since you sobbed so openly, wheezing as you soak your fine feather pillow with bitter tears? For so long the vaunted title of the Warrior of Light built a dam so high and impenetrable that you could bear the worst of griefs with naught but a smile.

_A smile better suits…_

A keen of raw grief rips through you, splits you to the bone, raw and vulnerable and exposed. You dig your nails into the thick calluses of your palms, wonder if Ardbert could hear your sniveling, if he pitied or despised you for your weakness—

You are forced to clamp down around your tongue at a knock at the door. 

Hiccuping and wiping the sleeve of your tunic roughly against your face, you walk on numb feet to the door, the blasted daylight still blazing through the crack at the bottom. 

You open the door to the Crystal Exarch; he bears two empty mugs in his hands and a patient, gentle smile. 

The scene is all too familiar. 

Gooseflesh rises across your skin as a wind fresh from the open air follows him into your room. 

You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle your sob of relief. 

“My friend,” his voice is soft and sad. “May I come in?” 

You hesitate a moment before nodding, sniffling hard against that flood of torment in your chest. There is a moment, when the door is closed behind him and you stand in the dim light of your apartment, that you wonder if he will take you up in his arms, tuck your head beneath his chin, whisper silken words of comfort.

But it is gone as easily as it came as he proceeds to do none of those things, instead setting the Boilmaster to heat and preparing two mugs of tea in companionable silence. You take the opportunity to shrug on a more substantial robe, curling up at the kitchenette table as you watch him move about your small kitchen. 

“The Light violates one’s sense of circadian rhythm,” he says with the air of a scholar. “I had suspected your first night on the First would be difficult, and, if you’ll forgive me, I requested the innkeep send for me if anything… seemed amiss.” 

“Ah.” 

_I can’t even grieve in privacy._ Your immediate relief at his presence is swept away in a hot wash of embarrassment.

The Exarch sees the alarm across your blotchy face and he immediately clears his throat. “I asked the same of him during your companions' first nights,” he clarifies, “and if you wish me gone, you need only say the word, my friend.” 

You shake your head, tucking your legs under you on the seat. “No,” you sigh. “I do not wish you gone. I forgot what it was to have others…” the word, so simple and plain, sticks on your tongue, “… _care_ for me.”

His mouth parts, and his body _lurches_ towards you before he stops himself just short. 

Even more disconcerting is how much you _want_ him to keep going.

“Do you take honey in your tea?” he says instead brusquely.

You nod. “Please.”

He opens a jar from your kitchenette as if he knew where it was all along, drizzling a golden ribbon of honey into both mugs. You watch the steam rise from the tea as he settles across from you. 

There is something… _off_ about his body language. Guarded, yet open; hungry yet restrained. It is a distinct shift from earlier.

_Perhaps this is simply… who he is,_ you think to yourself.

Despite the brevity of your friendship, you couldn’t help but think there is something so familiar to all of this. 

And his _smell._ He had smelled pleasant before in the Exedra—burned atmosphere and strong black tea, chased by freshly spilled ink—but a far darker note has overtaken it now, causing your very mouth to water.

The Exarch falls into focused silence, staring down into his mug as if conducting tasseography. 

You get the distinct impression he is taking the time to choose his words carefully. 

“The Scions missed you,” he says, finally breaking into a smile. “Terribly so; the Leveilleur twins in particular. Never doubt that you are cared for, that you are _beloved._ ” 

“It is one thing to love and another to nurture,” you counter. “They love me but they do not…”

_Why am I telling him this?_

You had always been told that you had a way of driving the truth out of people. Perhaps it was your stoic silence, or your ability to listen, but you felt people were constantly giving you their stories without prompting, trusting you with their hearts, minds, hopes, dreams, all now held in the storehouse of your memory. 

You had never met anyone that could do that to _you_ until now. Ther e is a compulsion in you to give him your all, tell him whatever he could handle. 

You struggle to leash your tongue in the face of such openness. 

“… they think I am stronger than I am,” you finally say. “That no matter the horrors, I’ll survive. They depend on my strength, love me for my resilience. But what if... I was not  half-so sturdy as everyone perceives?” 

“No one could begrudge you for being so.” 

“Mayhap, but…” You pinch the bridge of your nose, the tears that were stalled by his presence threatening to come undone, “… I do not feel as strong as others think I am. Not anymore.” 

There is that same moment again—his hand, the crystal one; the dim firelight reflects dizzy fractals off the harsh edges as it twitches towards you before he remembers himself, retreating to the quiet safety of his lap. “I and your companions will do everything we can to assure you of your value, my friend.” 

“My value because of my productivity, or my value because of who I am?” You challenge. 

“Your _inherent_ worth,” he murmurs, “because of simply being you. Hydaelyn’s blessing or no, eikons felled or not, your friends love you because you are good, kind, dedicated.”

“And you? Will you cast me to the side if I prove an impotent sword?” 

And this time— _third time’s the charm,_ Master Matoya crows—his hand does reach towards yours. His index finger brushes the hand wrapped around your mug; he drags it deliberately across your knuckles. Something dark, forbidden, a final warning flashes across his penumbral features.

“I will do no such thing.”


	2. blood sport.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _His hands, mismatched astral and umbral, slide down the column of your neck, tentative and cautious compared to the impatience he kissed you with. His crystal hand skims beneath your robe before sliding it off your shoulder, thumbs drifting over the angle of your collarbones; he gasps your name with a reverence you’d never heard from anyone._
>> 
>> _“I’ve never seen anyone so lovely as you,” he whispers, “and neither do I think I ever will.”_
> 
> CW for minor violence prior to sex and some potentially muddied consent. Both partners are consenting, with one participant questioning the consent of the other. 

_i want to be forgiven,  
i want to choke up chunks of my own sins,  
even if the sky cracks in mourning,  
and the heavens just won’t open up for me._

|| blood sport — sleep token ||

* * *

Any who dared survive the Flood of Light were given the dubious title of _sinner._ There was a small amount of pride that came with the notion, a vengeful sort of defiance against death itself. Norvrandt’s people were already damned, so what was an extra bite stolen at meal times, a moment longer lingered in bed? 

But if those like Giott the Aleforged took their indulgences to the extreme, the Exarch was an ascetic at heart. 

Perhaps he had overestimated his self-control, so used to denying himself even the smallest of simple pleasures. An insensible kit playing with fire, now reaping their punishment in scalded fingers and insufferable welts.

Now, he finds himself unable to resist the temptation of the ripened fruit before him, a bouquet of his own demise.

It is his undoing.

If the Exarch thought the suffering he endured in the Umbilicus was intolerable, it is _nothing_ compared to the white hot _heat_ that lances up his spine, driving a hiss from behind his clenched teeth. He slams his hand down onto the table, startling her into letting go of her mug.

“Exarch?” she stammers, eyes wide with concern.

_By the Twelve,_ he has to get out of here, and _fast._

“My mistake,” he whispers, strained. “I... I apologize, Warrior. A thousand times over. I am unwell, and it was remiss of me to entertain your company while availed in… such a manner.” 

She blinks, brow furrowing in confusion. “Whatever is the matter?”

Had she bathed, before she retired for the night? For her scent is _everywhere,_ clean and resplendent. When she moves her hair tumbles forward, and her fragrance, elusive and sultry, tantalizing him into the throes of bloodlust.

He could have her on the table, _right now._ Cast aside the robe, yank down her pantalettes, shove himself into her, into that wet heat he could _smell—_

or perhaps on her knees, willing and servile—

“Nothing,” he blurts, “well, _everything._ Warrior, I— I apologize, I cannot—“

“—are you running a fever? You’re sweating, and it’s truthfully quite cold in this room.” 

He watches, the movement suspended through time, as her bare hand ghosts over his before closing over his clenched fist. 

It is the wrong thing—the _worst_ thing—she could have done. 

He had never felt so out of control.

Someone, some _thing_ else entirely is moving his body in that moment. It is child’s play to open his hand and wrap it like a manacle around her slender wrist. He feels the small bones grind under his fingers as he _rips_ her towards him, driving a cry out of her as he forces her over the table to _him._

_“No—”_ it is a broken, strangled cry, his own voice wrung dry, and her forehead collides into his, hard enough to rattle his teeth.

The last dregs of his self-control keep him there, sharing her breath, clutching her like a lifeline. 

He can’t bear to look at her. 

She’s far too close, far too _dear_ to him to violate in such a repugnant way. How could he ever meet her eyes, knowing he’d assaulted her like this?

And she didn’t have the smallest inkling of who he truly was.

“Tell me what ails you,” she pleads, soft. “Let me help. Is it… are you… in…?” 

“In _what,”_ he grates, ragged and pained.

He tastes it more than hears it, her whisper so soft; it is meant for his ears alone. Something of _hers_ meant only for _him_.

“… _heat?”_

There was no running from it any longer, not now that she’d voiced his worst fears, made them real and tangible. 

All races had some form of oestrous cycle; some were better at concealing it than others. Prophylactics were readily available to combat such base requirements, even here on the First.

However, he had not so much as _glanced_ at them since he came to this land.

After all, he was a man of indomitable self-control, wasn’t he? And what he himself could not contain, the Tower consumed nearly all of it in its never-ending quest for more of his body and soul. 

He starts when her nose brushes against his, gentle and clumsy— _stars above,_ had she drawn _closer?_

Curiosity overwhelms him, and he chances a downward glance at her lips. 

They are parted, panting, plump and pliant—

—waiting for the kiss to come.

The shock is an antidote against the heady serenade of desire in his blood. He releases her, throwing himself bodily backwards until he hits the cupboards of the kitchenette with a clatter, gasping for air like a drowned man.

“I’ve gone through it,” she tells him, quick and direct. She rubs her bruised wrist, flexing her hand. This was not a woman who had been assaulted and cornered—no, this was one who knew _precisely_ what she wanted, and it terrifies him more than the former. “I know just how _bad_ it can get. When was your last—?” 

He barks a dry, wild laugh. “Before the Flood.” 

Her eyes widen, glimmering in the firelight. “By Althyk,” she swore, “you must be…”

“—If I can acquire the prophylactics necessary this will be over by the morning, and I cannot apologize enough for my indiscretion, Warrior, this was truly—“ 

“—There’s a faster, _surer_ way of remedying your situation,” she reminds him.

Not that he needed it.

For it had been all he’d been able to think of since entering her chambers. 

Since he chose fire instead of safety.

“I could not, _would_ not put you in such a situation. It would be inappropriate to the extreme, I…”

“I would not offer if I did not freely consent. Don’t be ridiculous, Exarch.” 

And she takes three quick strides, closing the distance between them.

“How,” he gasps as she stretches a hand out, “how could you possibly…?” 

Her hand comes to rest across his chest. Doubtless she feels the ragged drum of his heart, driven to a fervor by her and his… _situation_. The Warrior peers into his shadowed features, lips set in a determined line. 

“I want to forget,” she whispers, “about who I am, who you are or not, _where_ I am. Just for tonight. Is it so wrong, to use one another to achieve our own ends?”

Her hands drifted up from where they cradled his heart, her thumbs ghosting across the still-Spoken flesh of his neck before moving upwards, halting as she fisted the fabric of his cowl in either hand.

A threat and a promise.

A protest.

He wishes she would simply unveil him, end this petty charade before it could begin. It was the _least_ she deserved, and he yearned for her anger almost as much as he yearned for her ardor.

“We would undo one another,” he rasps. “I cannot risk so much for the sake of… merely biological desires, my own interest aside, this need not—” 

There are still tear tracks on her scarlet-tinged cheeks, salt clinging to the dark fringe of her lashes. He wants to taste her tears, consume every drop. 

“Then don’t let me see.” Her thumbs ghost over his parted lips, tender and so, _so_ warm. “This can stay here in this night, and neither of us will speak of it to anyone.” 

The Light clamors outside the closed shutters, inimitable and unconquered. 

“Take what you will, Exarch. I wouldn’t stop you.” 

* * *

Your words hang in the air, heavy and laden with implication. Profane, forbidden promises given voice.

The Exarch had turned to stone at your protestations. 

You yearn to pull the cowl off his face, lay bare the truth behind those eyes, force him to see for himself what he so badly needed…

… _You._

You had spoken with your heart when you pleaded with him to use you as he would. You could scent his desperation on the wind, catching a fire within you. 

There are many things you do not know about the Exarch. And as profane as the admission is…

… even if you barely know this man, you have made up your mind about one thing.

If he would give himself to you, you would take whatever offered with greedy, hungry hands—to forget who and what you are, if only for an instant. 

And if means alleviating his torment…

… well, all the more reason to succumb. 

He is tightly coiled, a predator ready to spring beneath your hands.

You startle when he finally moves; both his hands wrap around your wrists. Slow, as if to not start a frenzy within himself. His thumbs rest at your pulse points, and you wonder if he can feel the thrum of your blood beneath his touch, quickening to his heat. 

You want to bury your face in his robes, cover your mouth with his, and find out what that lovely, beautiful mouth _tastes_ like. 

If it is anything like his scent, you will be sorely pressed to stop.

“You’ll… have to start this,” he whispers. His voice is rough, dragged through the coals of his reservations. “I cannot… _allow_ myself…” 

He gives you the power of choice, of agency.

It feels like no choice at all.

For what else can you do, but ghost your lips over his? 

He doesn’t respond to the first cautious brush of your lips against his, rigid and frozen. But his grip on your wrists grows bruising, and reckless bravery drives you forward again, this time licking at the clenched seam of his mouth, willing him to give in, to _take_ you…

and then…

Everything is moving far, _far_ too fast. 

His mouth slides open to conquer yours, a snarling growl leaving his throat as you cower beneath him, the embers of his desire roaring into an inferno. 

You had ever known there is relief in surrender. 

Bliss beats its wings against your ears as the Exarch crushes your body to his, breasts flattening against the broad plane of his chest as he chases your mouth. Your tongues brush, warm and clumsy, all enthusiasm with little practice.

You find yourself excited at the prospect of practicing such niceties with him, deluding yourself with the hope for a _next time._

Some sense of self-preservation is panicking within you; you do not know this man, did not know his intentions, the truth of him occluded by half-secrets and patient smiles. Why would you let him touch you so, let him kiss you so soundly you whimper as he sucks and bites on your bottom lip, releasing it with a wet _pop_ only when swollen and bruised… 

But by the gods _above_ did it feel delicious to indulge in this sweetest of sins with him, a man you barely know, a man you didn’t _want_ to know.

His hands, mismatched astral and umbral, slide down the column of your neck, tentative and cautious compared to the impatience he kissed you with. His crystal hand skims beneath your robe before sliding it off your shoulder, thumbs drifting over the angle of your collarbones; he gasps your name with a reverence you’d never heard from _anyone._

“I’ve never seen anyone so lovely as you,” he whispers, “and neither do I think I ever will.”

A wild, desperate noise leaves your panting mouth, embarrassing and shrill when his mouth descends upon your neck. 

His fire is catching, alighting you with the same base desires; such is the nature of ruts, and your blood _sings_ with a melody ancient, carnal, and blessed. You grab at his robes to draw him tight, hitching a leg over his hip, squirming closer to him.

And then he’s pushing you forward, tumbling you over the wooden table. 

Tea gone cold seeps into the clothes at your back, the platter of fruit—a rarity in Norvrandt—cast aside recklessly as he hauls your thighs up, finding home between them. 

“Take me how you want,” you plead, profanities falling off your tongue so, _so_ easily as his mouth works further down, down your camisole to mouth at the tops of your breasts, “right here, _please,_ Exarch…” 

You feel the solid, fat curve of him against your stomach, scorching and erect, and you slip your hand down as he crushes you into the table, stroking through the bunched fabric of his robes. 

“Wicked _white,”_ he swears, bucking into your hand. “I…” his laugh takes you off guard, charming in its vulnerability. “If you aren’t careful, I’ll embarrass myself with this alone.”

“Well,” you purr, feeling devilish indeed, “if only you’d hurry up… and _take_ me like I asked.” 

It is debaucherous, profane and lurid how easily the words fall from your lips, how his demeanor darkens. Your camisole is pushed over your breasts, skin ruddy and pink from his fondling, robe still around your arms, damp smalls pushed to the side. You watch with curiosity as he fumbles with his robes—it seems there is a trick to parting them—and then pulls his cock free free from his smalls. 

_Oh._

Well, that is… 

…a not _insignificant_ problem. 

“You might,” you stammer, heart catching in your throat, “need to go… _slowly.”_

“Is… are such matters painful for…?” 

“Not typically,” you say quickly, feeling abashed, “you’re just…” You reach out to caress him, pumping slowly, languidly. He hisses between his teeth at your touch. Your hand doesn’t encompass his girth fully, and your insides _clench_ at what is to come. “Well, let’s say I’ll certainly be feeling this on the morrow, hmm?” 

“You’re like to kill me.” He covers your body with his, a strained laugh escaping him in a warm huff against your ear. “I-I can attempt to ease matters along, if you like—“ 

You grab at his hood, hauling him along lest he uncowl himself, smashing your mouth against his. Your tongue slips into his mouth, swallowing his moans, your own desire climbing higher and higher with each needy keen.

“ _Now.”_ The command slips out of you in a snarl. 

* * *

Gods above, he shouldn’t, he _couldn’t…_

The call in his blood, a siren-song more ancient than the Allagans themselves, pulls him further off the precipice. Her eyes glimmer with a heady darkness as she watches him slip the fat tip of his cock between her folds, gasping at the _warmth_ there, a bliss he never thought he would experience, that he was certainly wholly unworthy of. 

What had he ever done, to deserve such a thing from her? 

He would atone for the rest of his numbered days for this night. Not only had he concealed the truth of who he was to her—that she’d _known_ him, so many long years ago—but in the deepest recesses of him, perhaps he’d known what would come to pass if he visited her chambers.

Avidity and contrition, inextricably entwined as she watches him hesitate from behind the dark fringe of her lashes.

She wriggles her hips impatiently, and he slips in the first ilm—into _her, inside_ of her, gods— 

He breaks. 

He is beyond wit’s end, starved past insanity, wracked with guilt and horror and _lust_ and _ardor_ for her.

She makes a breathy little moan as he slides deeper, her head tipped back and hair fanning about her. The table creaks its protest when he shifts his weight forward to capture her lips. He is beginning to grow accustomed to the taste of her, an elusive, tricky thing, and he loses himself in the kiss to puzzle it out, a riddle with the answer just out of reach. 

Apples, perhaps? Rosehip, pinot noir— 

She cries out when he thrusts shallowly; he can feel her body tremble and he presses a hasty kiss to her forehead, the taste of her sweat another salty note in the bouquet of _her_. He forces himself to remember the hesitation in her eyes, the fear that was there—he can’t hurt her, he _can’t._ His crystal hand caresses the warm swell of her cheek, thumb brushing her nose and lips—

—she takes his finger into her mouth, gazing up at him, teeth glinting in the dark.

He drives a _scream_ out of her when he hilts himself the final distance in her, filling her to the brim. 

“You… you’re so…” he pants, gnawing the tender flesh of her neck again, blind and fumbling. Where words had never failed him, they do now. Her taste has become a favorite of his, how he _adored_ the thrum of her blood beneath his mouth and the way her breath hitches when he bites down.

“I’ve never felt so full,” she stammers, each breath tapering into a soft whimper. “I’ve never… _gods_ this is…” 

There is a wholeness in this, righteous benediction in the way their bodies meet and coalesce into one. There is no sense in it; it is simply a biological imperative enacted between two strangers, _using_ one another, as she had so accurately stated. 

There is nothing more hallowed in this, than two wolves rutting in the woods, lonely and desperate. 

_This means nothing,_ the last vestige of his sanity tells him over and over as he kisses her, wondering at the smile on her lips as she purrs, content and languid and sweet. She wraps her arms about his shoulders, drawing him close, and he loses himself completely in her silken mouth.

She gave him a gift so valuable, so coveted, he had not thought to begin to _ask_ for such a thing, spent it so thoughtlessly on a floundering boy drowning in the depths of the stars incarnate.

“W-Will you be alright, if I—?”

_“Please,”_ is her answering groan. 

She is impossibly _tight_ around him, the smallest of muscles clenching around his cock as fucks her; he can’t believe she’s so wet, and for _him,_ he has watched her like a celestial event and now she arches up, hips rising to meet him and in a lurid, crazed desperation. He straightens to grip the bony curves of her hips, mesmerized by the slide of him disappearing into her, slick and loud and obscene. 

It is nothing short of a miracle he lasts as long as he does.

He wants to make her beg, _needs_ to see her come undone for him, but his vision goes scarlet before he can stop himself; he _crushes_ her to him as he fills her. 

He’d never before come while in heat. Instead of the disappointing drop of being alone, he crests there in oblivion for several stretched out moments, knowing nothing but the tight hot clench of her around him and her sweet whispers as he fills her, each nebula winking out of existence before beginning anew, blighting his mind into blessed nothingness in the ecstasy.

He presses a clumsy kiss to her forehead, whimpering with aftershocks. 

There is nothing save for the ragged cant of their breathing, her small, warm hands cradling him with more love than he could ever deserve the fire smoldering in the kitchen crackles, warm and pleasant. 

It is there in that quiet silence when the crushing guilt of what he’s done overtakes him. 

How _dare_ he linger in her arms as if he belonged there? He’s taken advantage of her kindness, regardless that she’d offered in kind. He had plucked her from her own time and had the audacity to coerce her in her darkest of nights, and instead of offering words of comfort or strength he had plied her with his body.

If he had ever needed proof that he— _G’raha Tia—_ was unworthy of her affection, here it lay. 

She’s silent as he stands, watching with detached disinterest as he rights his robes. The only thing more cowardly than what he’d done to her is the way he leaves now, unable to bring himself to watch the sadness in her eyes as he steps back into the blinding Light, his sins once more exposed to the burning skies above. 

There is no return, no recourse for what he’d wrought. 

He leaves her cold, his spend dripping between her clenched fingers and onto the table.


	3. iconoclast.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _“The Beehive aims to titillate and stimulate the senses, albeit without crossing the line into complete debauchery. Only a hint of thus. The masks are an ancient Eulmoran tradition, for there is nothing more alluring than that which you cannot see—you understand, yes?”_
>> 
>> _You close your eyes, and the Exarch’s darkened features and cryptic smile swims before you._
>> 
>> _Oh, you understood._  
> 
> 
> CW for canon-typical violence.

_he that saith he is in the light,  
_ _and hateth his brother,  
_ _is in darkness even until now._  


* * *

As you mull over your morning tea, Ardbert comes to you. He filters in slowly, a mere shaft of light before coalescing into a man, so intangible and incandescent it almost escapes one’s notice. 

His hesitation to speak tells you everything you need to know. 

“So,” he finally says. Uneasy. Abashed.

You sigh, picking at your coffee biscuit with disinterest. “Rude to eavesdrop.” 

“Believe you me, it was _not_ my intention,” Ardbert huffs. “I have no right to judge, at any rate. I’ve done damned fool things myself.” 

“I was…” Your head falls into your hands, a familiar headache overtaking you. “It was a mutually beneficial service—“ 

He holds up his hands. “You don’t have to justify anything to me. To yourself and your gods, maybe. Just… well, perhaps do me the kindness of not making _that_ a habit.” 

“It won’t,” you mutter, standing and pulling on your greaves.

You didn’t much care for being judged for your questionable life choices by the spirits of the dead.

The Exarch’s formality and politeness in the Ocular might have convinced you it had merely been a fever dream, save for the bruises about your wrist and the languor seeping in your limbs. He gives you the choice between fetching either of the Leveilleur twins, and after some deliberation, you decide to reunite with Alisaie first. She was in far more dangerous lands, and while you were anxious to see Alphinaud once more, there was a certain note in the Exarch’s voice which made you worry when he spoke of her. 

When he hands you a series of envelopes to aid your journey, each sealed with scarlet wax, your fingers brush and you start away, thinking only of how those hands felt moving on your body, gripping your hips as he thrust into you. 

Nothing on his shadowed features gave way. 

It was precisely as you’d promised one another, and the pain of it takes your breath away. 

* * *

There is something peaceful about the rolling sand dunes and sheer cliffsides of Amh Araeng—and something deeply troubling about the waves of pure Light crystallized at every edge, an ever-present reminder of the past. Of the threat threatening to pull you under. 

Alisaie is a little harder, a little more lean than she was before, but she is still filled with that same ferocity you had come to love about her, her anger honed to a killing edge with each Sin Eater she slaughtered. 

You don’t miss the sly looks between her and Tesleen—whether romantic or otherwise, they had grown inexplicably close in their duties to Journey’s Head and its terminal patients. It sickens you to admit that you find yourself envious at their closeness; small, insignificant touches here and there, born out of a casual intimacy from sharing close quarters for a long time, and inside jokes that Alisaie struggles to explain to you. 

You were hungry. Hungry in a way that left you wordless with its furor, intimacy rendered a far off dream. 

Over a meal of stew, Tesleen drifts away to check on Haldric, and Alisaie leans over to you, having already finished her bowl. 

“So, what did you think of the Lord Exarch?” 

You hadn’t realized exactly how much you’d been dreading such a question until the words leave her lips.

“He’s… a mystery,” you stammer, pushing a chunk of popoto around your half-drained stew bowl, “but I trust him. For now.” 

“He speaks very highly of you,” she huffs. “It’s almost _creepy._ ” 

Genuine curiosity overtakes you. “And what does he say?” 

“He knows things he shouldn’t about us, about _you,_ I imagine from watching in that great big mirror of his, but… well, I don’t know. I can’t rightly tell you if it’s hero worship or obsession—but such is the case with most of your admirers, no?” Her grin is cheeky, warming the fractured edges of your heart with its sincerity. “Let us be grateful he’s not nearly as insidious as the Viceroy.” 

You shudder at the memory, at what cause you could not say. What lay between you and Zenos yae Galvus defied explanation, ineffable and bloodsoaked. 

“The Exarch seemed… _enthusiastic,_ I suppose.” 

The warmth of his breath ghosting in your ear as he panted above you, the bruising kisses of his ardor fading to a mottled brown across your chest, and the way he called your name when he came— _no one_ had ever said your name quite like _that…_

You spoon a chunk of mystery meat—lizard, you suspected, by the stringiness of it—into your mouth, speaking only when you finished chewing. “And what do you think of our mysterious friend, Alisaie? Heavens know you’ve known him longer than I.” 

She scowls. “He’s _sly._ Alphinaud may admire him for it, but it doesn’t sit well with me. Did he tell you why Y’shtola isn’t here?” 

You shake your head.

“She thinks he’s up to something—hiding something from us, playing his own game. So, she refuses to have anything to do with him or the Crystarium, even if it’s to her detriment.” 

“Oh,” you breathe. 

The knowledge festers in the pit of your stomach like a rotting apple.

You don’t have the opportunity to speak with Alisaie alone again—not with Tesleen’s death hanging in the air between you, and Alisaie’s furious tears as they bury what little remains of the sweet girl.

If you had doubted the nature of their relationship before, her grief, the very aether swept away in her pain, leaves nothing for question.

You hate yourself for having ever envied her, when she would bear such pain.

* * *

Alisaie bids a hasty goodbye as she flies back to the Crystarium, working her amaro into a lather with her fury, so you set out on your own to the blighted lands of Kholusia.

It was all too easy to pretend nothing weighed on your mind, what with the gaudy tower of Eulmore’s debauchery on the horizon and the blighted cliffsides. Time itself slowed to a halt before such damnation. 

But you find a breaking point within yourself when you set sight on Alphinaud for the first time in moons.

The Elezen age slowly, budding roses that bloom under adversity. Alphinaud’s time had not come, but there is a wiseness in his steel blue eyes you had not seen before, one brought upon self-reliance and witnessing the worst of humanity. But his smile is the same sweet one you remembered from your times in Coerthas, and it sets your heart at ease to see it. 

You fill one another in on what you’ve missed, picking up your rapport as if it had never been abandoned. There is a language you share with the Scions alone, one in unspoken glances and a shift of the shoulders, pressed hands and the clink of a wine bottle. You were relieved to find you are both still fluent, warmth and fraternal love filling your heart for the young man. 

“Forgive me,” Alphinaud sighs as you walk towards Gate Town, “I have never seen you so… ill at ease. I must ask, is it merely these circumstances we find ourselves caught up in, or is something else the matter? I ask as a friend, who dearly missed you.”

Master Louisoix’s grandson indeed. Alphinaud missed nothing, no matter how carefully you thought you had concealed such things from him. 

If you told him…

There was only one reason to disclose the weight on your heart—and that was your own ease. 

It was not sufficient cause to burden your friend so.

Besides, you had vowed to keep your silence on the matter, and you would not betray the Exarch’s trust so easily, your doubts of his credibility aside. 

“Every time I think I’ve seen the last horror, Norvrandt finds something else,” you finally say with a pained grimace—and it was the truth. “We ran into… some difficulty in Amh Araeng, but it is a tale Alisaie should rightly tell you.” 

Alphinaud nods, patting your shoulder before leading the way to Gate Town.

You weren’t even through the gates of Eulmore, and yet its depravity bled out like a sickness, seeping into your very skin as you watch the young hopefuls swallow down meol like their last meal. Something about the sickly sweet stench sets your hair on end. Kai-Shirr’s desperate cries do nothing to abate the dull nausea in your throat, not until Alphinaud and you collude to steal you into Eulmore. 

“You trained as a dancer in Limsa Lominsa, am I correct?” Alphinaud asks, the thread of a plot glimmering in his voice. 

You nod, and he presses on.

“There is an establishment—the Beehive, they say—are they are always short on dancers. Present your chakrams, tell them you wish to be a Honeybee, and the Jongleurs should let us in. I will play as your assistant, and we shall find the root of this evil together.” 

“Catching flies with honey instead of vinegar,” you muse.

Alphinaud grins. “Indeed.”

* * *

You’re surprised when the Queen Bee is, in fact, an Elezen gentleman; silver-haired with a vulpine look about him, his maroon smoking jacket accentuating his lean limbs and tall stature. 

He had the look of a man not to be trifled with. 

“My good lady,” he greets with the practiced bow of a courtier, “word of your beauty travels fast, armor aside. Forgive me, but I must admit I am surprised one such as yourself boasts of a talent for dancing—but a gentleman’s club and the battlefield are not so different, no?” 

Your armor—dark and dangerous, betokening that of a dark knight—creaks as you shuffle your feet. “I trained for some time, in a far, far land as a dancer, albeit with chakrams.”

“And do you have such weapons with you?”

“I do.” You present them for his inspection—it was a weapon you were not as comfortable with as a sword, but you took quickly to any combat art, and the deceiving wild beauty of dancing came easily to you. You only hoped it would be enough to convince the Queen Bee of your value, and buy you enough time for Alphinaud to conduct his investigation. 

He inspects them carefully with the white gloved hands of a curator before handing them back to you. “I do not think you are speaking falsely, but I hope you will not take offense if I request an audition.”

You shake your head. “I would be honored, but I’m afraid I do not have my dancer’s attire.”

He grins. “We are not the City of Final Pleasures for nothing, my good lady! Fear not.” He gestures to the darkened haunt, only a handful of patrons dozing in the booths, the true addicts of the Beehive’s honey. “The Beehive aims to titillate and stimulate the senses, albeit without crossing the line into complete debauchery. Only a _hint_ of thus. The masks are an ancient Eulmoran tradition, for there is nothing more alluring than that which you cannot see—you understand, yes?” 

You close your eyes, and the Exarch’s darkened features and cryptic smile swims before you.

 _Oh_ , you understood.

“I think so.” 

“Excellent. In the dressing room there will be everything you need. Take to the elevated stage, and prove your worth, little Honeybee.” 

The Queen Bee had spoken true. There were tight-clinging clothes in your size and the gilded characteristic unicorn mask. It felt strange to be so exposed, and on a whim you cast a simple glamour to conceal the scars across your body. You felt no shame in them—how could you hate that which proved your resilience?—but the Eulmorans would not take kindly to being reminded of the cruelties of the world. 

Something dark strikes you when you settle the mask over your features.

You could have been any young woman, charming and hungry for fortune. 

You wondered what _he_ would think, to see you so. 

You shudder, and force yourself to leave before you could linger on him any longer. 

You had no experience with pole dancing, your skills lying solely in combat proficiency, but again, the Queen Bee was wise—it was not difficult to transition such skills to the dance floor. 

You begin in standard step, as you were taught, forcing your limbs to relax as you sweep into an _emboite,_ grasping the pole with one hand as you swing around it, slow and casual. A couple patrons lifted their heads to consider you as you moved into _entrechat,_ flashing a smile as you move. 

_Pirouette—_ both arms clasped on the pole, you lift your feet off the floor as you kick up, sweeping into a graceful slow spin onto the floor. A flashy move, and a risk, but it has the intended effect. From the bar you can see the Queen Bee nod his approval, tipping his drink up to you. 

Evidently your audition was a success.

You almost move into a technical step, finding a simple pleasure in the translation of combat to beauty, when the orchestrion falls silent, and the same two Jongleurs that had escorted you into the city enter, twins wholly save for their attire. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please: a tale to make you quiver and your noble blood freeze!” the scarlet one crows. The patrons cease their conversations, all turning to see the spectacle. 

“There was a villain on the loose, set to ruin our fair city.” 

“But our lord has got him now, and his fate will _not_ be pretty!” The blue one grins, just shy of bloodthirsty. “Yes, the hammer of justice is poised to come crashing down!” she bows with a flourish. “And one and all who’d watch it fall are invited to join his lordship in the Offer!” 

_Vauthry,_ you realize, your blood running cold at the thought. _Good gods, is it Alphinaud…?_

One by one, the patrons file out, whispering excitedly as they head towards the elevator. You linger until a dancer leaps off stage to follow, and you elect to do the same, forcing yourself to slow your pace, your slippered feet wanting to move ahead. You couldn’t seem too eager, not if you were to spring your dear friend from a trap. 

When you enter the Offer, you slip towards the front, your blood turning to ice water when you see a familiar white head bowed before the lord—until you notice a shock of blue hair, Kai-Shirr, scarlet blood dripping between his clenched fingers. You dash forward to Alphinaud’s side, heedless of your appearance. 

“Sin eaters are part of Eulmore’s society. But they must be fed with aether— _living_ aether,” Vauthry snarls. There is something so deeply unpleasant about his voice that causes your very skin to crawl. “So—I demanded an offering of flesh! Carved by his own hand, from his own hide! And _still_ he could not do as I asked! A wholly unsatisfactory performance!” 

The darkness within you _sings_ at the rage spidering your heart, white-hot levin ready to strike. Your attire be damned, you were ready to rip out Vauthry’s stinking heart for all to see. 

Alphinaud steps forward before you can decide to act—your heart swells with pride as he speaks, angry, noble, and true, besting Vauthry in the combat of words before it can hardly begin. But Vauthry’s pride cannot allow such matters to continue, and he boasts his vainglory, his status as adjudicator. That same furious anger consumes your vision and hearing entirely when the Eulmorans _applaud._

How could you have deluded yourself into thinking for even a _moment_ that this place was worth saving? You could end the matter here and now, and you would—you ready your chakrams, spinning them deftly in your fingers, before starting forward—but ever the voice of reason, Alphinaud halts you with an outstretched hand.

“And people call this paradise,” he snarls, his anger bitter and furious. 

“You were granted a place in my city for a particular skill. What was it?” Vauthry asks innocently, turning his head towards you. 

All eyes are on you—and while your face is still concealed by the Honeybee mask, you feel exposed indeed. 

“Dancing,” you seethe.

Kai-Shirr whimpers behind you, the coppery stench of his spilt blood on the air. The sin eaters lounge, resplendent, gilded ivory boredom incarnate. 

“Oho, a dancer! Then you shall be my newest pet, little Honeybee.” His smile is lascivious—you had no doubt Vauthry only had an interest in you to humiliate both you and Alphinaud for your rebellion, but bile rises in your throat at the mere _idea_ of such a thing. “If I find you pleasing, then I may excuse this display of insolence.” 

As you struggle to find words, Alphinaud turns and kneels before the Mystel, casting a healing spell on him, the aether calm and balmy in contrast to the darkness threatening to explode out of you. 

“Who gave you permission to tend to that criminal’s wounds?! You— _I told you to dance!_ ” 

You speak with a voice not wholly your own, a dark currant overtaking your usual timbre. 

Something unspoken and unseen within you kindles to the challenge. 

“I would gouge out your eyes before I let you see my dance, _my lord._ You are a horror the likes of which I’ve never seen.” 

Vauthry falls silent, considering you with corpse-like blue eyes as you and Alphinaud gather up Kai-Shirr and make your exit. You ignore the susurrus of the crowd around you, pushing forward and wanting nothing more than to leave this damned city. 

“Don’t let me turn back,” you tell Alphinaud, finding your own voice once more. “I would slaughter the lot of them.” 

“As tempting though it may be,” he smiles bitterly, his face an ashen mask, “I shall be your leash this day.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu what's this? another update??? after i said this thing was only weekly???
> 
> that's right we're going _bi-weekly_ now! happy starlight you filthy animals 🖤


	4. give me the night.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _“You ask too much, I— why me?” He pleads. “You could have anyone you like with the smallest crook of your finger and yet you fix your sights on me, a doddering old fool who lacks the courage to face you without cloak and shadow.”_
>> 
>> _You find yourself coming to your feet, knees water, the chair scraping against the Tower floors. You come to stand beside him, his head swiveling to track your movements. You slowly, tentatively, raise a gloved hand to rest it on his cheek. He shudders beneath your touch._
>> 
>> _“Is it so strange,” you whisper gently, “that I enjoyed that night together? That I would wish for another?”  
> _
> 
> CW for canon-typical violence, I'm going to be editing the tags soon so watch out for that, shouldn't be any huge changes. 

_ like lovers entwined   
_ _ i know for the last time   
_ _ you will not be mine   
_ _ so give me the night,  
_ _ the night,  
_ _ the night.   
_ || the night does not belong to god — sleep token ||

* * *

He can almost pretend that night of weakness never happened. 

Almost. 

When his robes return from the launder, the scent of her clings to them still; bruised apples, bloodied wine, flowers from a long forgotten era, elusive and charming.

He stands in his quarters and presses his face into them, throat choked with inexpressible emotion.

The dulcet tones of her voice echo through the Ocular during the late nights pouring over research and documentation… but such had always been the case. She’d lived in him for a hundred years, but now his imagination was fueled by the forbidden fruit of experience. 

Four ragged scratches arc down his bare back—she’d clawed him even through his robes, and he was loathe for them to heal. __

_ Let them scar _ , he thought. Let them remain on him forever; if the Baldesions and the Tower had claimed his body, let her have a stake on him too, his flesh a living monument to the claims upon him. 

He wondered if he’d bruised her, and how quickly the marks would fade on her silken skin. 

But none of this could possibly compare to the indelible marks she’d left on his mind, his very  _ soul.  _

She haunted him everywhere he went—the memory of her sweeping him into speechlessness at the worst of times. How she looked, sprawled across the table as he took her with a fury and the soft, pleased noises she made as he moved in her… 

“ _ Take what you will, Exarch. I wouldn’t stop you.”  _

Just as there was no question of whether he would ever forget what she gave him, so was the matter of a repeated encounter ever happening—under absolutely no circumstances could he allow such a thing to occur again. The very next morning he went straight to Spagyrics and requested a full supply of prophylactics, ignoring the way the chirurgeon’s eyebrows raised at him. He took them dutifully, remembering the sickening way her slender wrist bent back as he ripped her towards him, thoughtless and brutal. He could not allow himself to do such a thing to her again. 

But it did not matter in the end how much she lingered in him, a torrent drenching him in her aether—that night would forever and always be a  _ mistake,  _ a blight on his conscience that could never be cleansed.

There was no choice left to him but to atone.

There was far too much at stake, for either of them. The fate of two shards were counterbalanced in their hands,  _ her  _ life depended on his vouchsafing his duty, and…

…well, what was the use, in courting with someone whose days were numbered so? 

She would do far better than him. 

But today the Exarch’s thoughts were entirely swept aside by another’s more pressing concerns—

—those of young Alisaie. 

The Crystarium guard sent word for him once he caught sight of her lone amaro—the Warrior must have moved on to Kholusia alone to retrieve the other Leveilleur. But when he arrived to the Light-drenched Amaro Launch, Alisaie was nowhere to be found, and the Zun attending to her steed merely gestured towards the Pendants.

“She seemed… troubled, my lord,” Szem Djenmai murmured, surprisingly gentle as he eased the saddle off the amaro’s back. “I would find her, quickly.”

He nearly ran to her quarters in the Pendants, panicking when he found them empty, and then cursing himself for his foolishness; did he really think Alisaie would linger in her quarters any longer than necessary when troubled? Such was not in her nature. 

Count Fortemps’  _ Heavensward  _ had detailed Alisaie’s temperament well indeed. 

He found her outside the guard’s barracks,  _ heard _ her before he caught sight of her, a blur of fire and snow. 

While he had some knowledge of black and white magicks, a feat achieved only through the Tower’s resources, he had never quite grasped what it meant to be a red mage. There was the seemingly effortless balance between white and black, but to walk the path of the red was to constantly be a force in motion, walking the knife edge of an épée with grace and fury.

Riposte, moulinet, corps-á-corps—interwoven effortlessly and completely between her aether. But the Exarch could tell plainly her entire field of gravity was set adrift, in the way her ankle twisted when her feet slammed into the ground, the extra leap it took to spin herself backwards from her target dummy—

Something had truly discomfited her.

“You have much improved, Alisaie,” he calls, hoping the compliment sounded true, for it was. 

She skids to a halt, kicking up dust as her heels skirted across the training grounds. “If you want to spy, you need only use that godsdamned mirror.” There was bile in her voice, sardonic and alkaline. 

There would be no use in engaging her, when she was so keen to draw blood. “I merely wanted to welcome you back to the Crystarium, and perhaps hear of your time in Amh Araeng. It is an area I am not well acquainted with—“

“—have you ever loved someone, Exarch? Truly?” 

He can barely discern the question over the din of the Crystarium, over the sounds of her labored breathing. But there was no doubt what she had asked, the pain in it all too obvious. A keening dissident note, errant and vile. 

“I have,” he says—honest, for once. 

“And did you lose them?” 

The heir of Master Louisoix’s fire, Alisaie’s silver hair hangs in her eyes as she stares down at the dirt-packed ground, her slender shoulder shaking. He has never seen her so vulnerable, so  _ pained.  _ It reminds him of when he first came into custody of Lyna, how furious she was at the world — at what had been taken senselessly and needlessly from her. 

The truth served him well then, as it would now. 

“I did.” 

“What did…  _ how  _ did you…” She takes a great, steadying breath. He doesn’t need to see her face to know she is struggling against tears. 

“How do you continue? To fight? To go on? Knowing they are lost forever?” 

The Exarch clenches his fist around the solid bronze of his staff.  _ The key to bygone eras,  _ one of the scraps of notes from Cid Garlond had said of the weapon.

What were bygone eras to the heartache of loss? 

“I keep faith, that by my words, my actions, my deeds, I can reprise them in all I do. They may remain in the Lifestream, but I will continue my vigil, to commemorate who they were, what they lived for.”

Alisaie is silent for several long moments, her jaw working, as if vacillating between lashing out or breaking down completely.

The Exarch doesn’t give her the choice. He gives her a courteous bow and leaves, throat crushed with inexplicable dread. 

Who would continue his vigil when  _ he _ was gone? Would it be the peoples of the Crystarium, or the Tower itself? He had sought to continue the legacy of Allag, without considering who would carry on when he returned to the Lifestream. 

Or would  _ she _ take up that mantle herself? 

No one would suit it better, but he would not wish such a burden on her heart. 

* * *

The cinders of ruined livelihoods and tarnished traditions burned in the back of your throat as you and your companions followed the Exarch through the ruins of what was once Holminster Switch. 

Something in the man had…  _ changed.  _

He stood taller, prouder, cut through the Sin Eaters with a grace you had never before seen, quick and agile on his feet. He wielded sword and shield as a paladin would, suffering through the weighty blows and carving through the blighted creatures with a low growl, sandaled feet digging into the dirt as he’s pushed back. Gone was the timid caretaker of the Crystarium; you found yourself back-to-back with a  _ warrior _ , one whose strength and skill intimidated even you.

Perhaps such a performance might have moved you, were circumstances not so dire. 

Alisaie avenges her fallen friend by slaughtering the desecrated corpse that claimed her features. In all your years together, you had never seen her so vicious, a scarlet whirlwind of fire and fury, astral and umbral woven together into a single sanguine thread, slashed asunder by the needlepoint of her épée. 

She gores the wretched creature with a hoarse cry, sinking to her knees into the scorched earth as the Sin Eater’s form shatters, a hundred thousand points of pure Light.

Captain Lyna watches from a distance, holstering her chakrams, a soft expression on her features.

“Alisaie.” Alphinaud steps forward, sinking down to rest a hand on her shoulder. 

Something in their unspoken bond shifts; Alisaie comes to her feet, wipes her eyes hastily. 

“What are you all standing around for?” she sniffs. “We’ve a Lightwarden to kill.” 

Her words were true, and you’re forced to follow in her footsteps as she takes off at a sprint. 

You have no words for how Light tastes, how it  _ feels.  _ Like purest aether incarnate, molten wax and crumbling rockfall, dust before rain and levin before it strikes. Too much and too little, gluttonous and ascetic, contradictions alongside perfect unequivocal harmony. 

The Exarch’s words ring in your ears. He speaks like a harbinger of time itself, a prophet witnessing legends come to pass. All through his words are a tremble, an  _ ache  _ unfathomable and consuming. 

He deems you a hero, the Warrior of Darkness,  _ speaks  _ it into being. 

You split the daylight open, exposing what lies beyond—the sunless sea, the velvet night sky dotted with stars and constellations. 

You had only gone without the night sky for a few suns—but it was one too many, and even you gaze upwards in a daze, the aether leaving you in a resplendent sigh. 

You would have stared forever—at the foreign stars, the moon waxing overhead. Lost in the galaxies turning undisturbed. 

“How many years have I waited for this moment…”

The Exarch takes you off guard—as he ever does.

“… for the one possessed of Her blessing…” 

He kneels before you—as if a knight to his king, a gesture you had seen by many, anesthetized to its significance, but watching him sink to his knees, head bowed…

“…for  _ you. _ ”

A memory, hazy, unfinished; a Miqo’te leaping from a landing, all spry smugness and self-importance. 

You clear it from your mind, for it should be long forgotten in the past. 

But something in the Exarch’s voice is so, so familiar when he responds to Alisaie’s interrogations, tempered by time, perhaps, weathered into obscurity by pain and suffering… but  _ there  _ nonetheless.

_ “There are…. things… we can ill afford to lose.”  _

* * *

It is one thing to say he will see the night sky again, every day for a century, repeating it not only for himself, but for the whole of Norvrandt. Repetition bore the hope into a fact, a law of existence that one day the Warrior of Darkness would take back the night.

It is another to see such acts given reality, to watch her rip the everlasting Light asunder and unveil the celestial heavens once more. 

He had never, in all his years, seen the Crystarium like this. Lamps which were prepared in the hopes of night’s return are  _ finally  _ lit. Watchmen fetch dusty cans of oil from the depths of the storehouses while the Crystal Tower’s jagged spire bisects the night sky. The Tower had bathed in the Light for one hundred years and it burns against the darkness, a living memento to the strength of her people, who defied fate itself time and time again. 

_ “The Warrior of Darkness,”  _ they whisper, conspirators in hope,  _ “they’ve brought back the night!”  _

He yearns to turn to her, to grab her by the shoulders and tell her,  _ you did this, godsdammit all, you brought us hope!  _ But he settles instead for touching her shoulder before she turns to head for the Pendants.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, gently. “You had scarcely a moment to yourself when you returned with Alphinaud.”

She opens her mouth to answer—

—and a snarling, voracious growl echoes out of her stomach. 

He poorly stifles a laugh behind his hand before he can stop himself. She grins sheepishly up at him and his heart swells with long-born affection.

“I have my answer, then,” he smiles. “The kitchens will surely have some leftovers for us.”

“Would you mind,” she says, quiet and fearful, “if we ate together? There are… matters I would discuss with you. If it’s no trouble, that is. I understand you are busy.” 

Surely it was only regarding their duties ahead—perhaps more exacting notions on aetherial Light, where the next Lightwarden was, perhaps even Alisaie’s grief. 

But the fire in her eyes, a smolder rekindled by the night sky, says otherwise.

He has no doubt that which she wishes to discuss. 

If nothing else, it was as suitable a setting as any for him to make his apologies to her, and begin the long road to atonement.

“I would be happy to,” he assures her. 

His inclinations were correct; there are tureens of still-warm food from dinner preparations, each more fragrant and delicious than the last.How long ago had it been, when the first of the Crystarium’s people scavenged the Lakeland wilds for nuts and berries, roasting fish over weak fires and eating every last slimy organ? Those instincts to save and preserve resources had never left him, and he takes only what is necessary, urging the Warrior on to take her fill. 

“Would they mind, you think, if I took a bottle of wine?” she asks innocently. 

A crate had been cracked open from the cellars, dusty wine bottles glimmering in the aetherlight. He recognized the wax seals well; one of the best vintages the meager vineyards had ever produced, after several generations of crossbreeding and experimenting with watering.

“Wine is meant to be drunk,” he tells her. “Take two bottles, if it pleases you.” 

“Sinners to the end,” she grins. 

She was more right than he could have warranted.

* * *

Mushroom sauté, peppered popotos in seafood sauce, and warm crusty baguettes to soak them in; part of you wanted to eat quietly and slowly, but your appetite was a snarling beast in the pit of your belly, made only more ravenous by the anxiety of speaking to the Exarch in such intimate circumstances. You wolfed down your food, scarcely stopping to reach for the wine glass, which the Exarch kept dutifully filled for you. You felt his gaze over the rim of your glass, another time when you licked up a splatter of sauce from your knuckle.

“Is watching me eat truly so fascinating? I assure you, my table manners don’t get much better than this. Even Ser Aymeric could hardly stand it.”

“Forgive my rudeness.” He laughs, a warm throaty sound that sends the blood rushing to your cheeks. “It is… have you ever reared beastkin?” 

You bark a laugh. “How flattering, to be likened to beastkin while I dine.” 

He flushes at your words. “I merely meant… watching you eat… there is something to be said, for watching someone you hold dear eat their fill. It grants a level of satisfaction. Of security. That you will survive, that you’re well. I hope it is not… condescending of me to say such.” His crystal hand rubs the back of his neck—a tic you were quickly beginning to realize belied the Exarch’s embarrassment.

“Well, at least I haven’t frightened you,” you huff with a smile.

“You’ll certainly have to work harder, if that is your intention.” Likely in an attempt to stop you from licking your plate clean, the Exarch stands, clearing the modest table methodically. “Could I interest you in tea, perhaps?”

“I’ll stick with the wine, if you don’t mind.”

_ Hydaelyn grant me the courage,  _ you think to yourself,  _ to clear the air between us so it clouds my conscience no longer. _

He presents another bottle, dustier than the last, and you watch with rapt fascination as the tendons in his arm work as he uncorks it, the veins little eddies beneath his pale skin. He cradles both the wine glasses in his crystal hand, pouring with the other, before taking his seat once more, stiff backed and tense.

_ By the Twelve. _

Your mouth is drier than Amh Araeng’s sand dunes, your tongue useless and limp against your teeth. 

“I don’t know where to begin,” you blurt.

The Exarch nods, then leans forward, drumming his fingers on the table. “Then, perhaps will you allow me to say my piece?”

You nod, curious.

“I owe you a hundred thousand apologies—“

You raise a hand. “I accept none of them, for you have  _ nothing _ to apologize for.”

He frowns. “I did not manage my oestreus cycle, I put you in danger, I assaulted you, I—“

“You did nothing I did not ask for.”

“But how clear is the consent when a heat is involved?” His voice grows louder, rapid in his quest to plead his case. “You know as well as I do that such pheromones leave one addled and confused, it was—“

“You would rob me of my agency to tell me whether I consented to that night or not, Exarch,” you snap. “True, perhaps if you were not in a rut, I might not have bedded you, but I  _ did.  _ And I seem to recall… enjoying myself,” your voice drifts into a frayed whisper, which you promptly down before it could betray you again.

The Exarch seems mortified. 

“D-Do not let it be said that I also did not… enjoy what we did,” he says, hushed and stammering, “for truthfully it has consumed my every waking thought in your absence. But regardless of your consent, it was wholly inappropriate of me.”

“Every waking thought?” you say, innocent.

Something in his features  _ darkens,  _ his full lips setting into a hard line. 

Your blood, as ever, quickens to his penumbral mood. 

“We cannot allow such a dalliance to occur when so much is at risk. Or work has merely begun, and I fear I put you in danger—“

“I am not a child, to be lectured on the separation between work and pleasure. I know what I am about.” You fold your arms over your chest, impatient. “I did not make that decision lightly.”

“No,” he rasps, “I suspect you did not.”

Tension settled in like an old friend between the two of you, keeping words on tight leashes and your hearts on a teetering edge.

“What would be one more time?” You find yourself saying. “I confess there are… many things I find myself curious of, and… to be perfectly honest, I could  _ use  _ such a dalliance.”

“I question your selection for such things,” he huffs. “Any in the Crystarium would be full glad to have the Warrior of Darkness in their bed, you need not settle—“

“—Tell me you do not want this, that you have no interest in me, but do not serve me the insult of telling me what I do or do not want, what I do or do  _ not _ consent to!” You find your voice rising, anger clutching your throat.

Your words find their mark. The Exarch, spoken hand shaking, picks up his wine glass and lifts it to his lips, tilting his head back to down the entire drink. 

His voice is dark and gravelly when he finally speaks again. “I want nothing more, then to serve you in any capacity you would allow. But I cannot allow you to see my identity, and the separation between duty and dalliance is easier said than done.”

“If you fear I will be emotionally compromised in my duty, it is nothing more than I already am where my companions are involved. I am afraid in my line of work I do not have the luxury of emotional detachment. And for the issue of your identity…” your cheeks warm at the mere idea of you intended to say, a dark thought which had consumed you since your tryst, born of long buried fetishistic desires.

“Yes?”

You peer up into his hood, wondering how his eyes looked as you stare one another down. Were they calm as balmy seas, or a fire unquenched and unchecked?

“Bind and blindfold me,” you say. “I would be at your mercy.” 

His breath catches. His grip on his wine glass grows crushing before he releases it, pushing it away from him.

“If such an arrangement is displeasing to you, let us quit this matter entirely. I will never speak of that night or this night to anyone, and I trust neither shall you.” Your voice trembles. “But I would like to…  _ try  _ to find a path through this quandary.”

“You ask too much, I— why  _ me? _ ” He pleads. “You could have anyone you like with the smallest crook of your finger and yet you fix your sights on me, a doddering old fool who lacks the courage to face you without cloak and shadow.”

You find yourself coming to your feet, knees water, the chair scraping against the Tower floors. You come to stand beside him, his head swiveling to track your movements. You slowly, tentatively, raise a gloved hand to rest it on his cheek. He shudders beneath your touch. 

“Is it so strange,” you whisper gently, “that I enjoyed that night together? That I would wish for another?” 

He turns his head to nuzzle into your hand, warm breath coming fast. 

“It is something I did not even dare allow myself to entertain even in my darkest daydreams, my friend,” his words come in a ragged gasp, desperation lacing every syllable.

Your hand moves to rest beneath his chin, tilting his face up to yours.

“Did you hear?” You smile. “For the night has returned, the Warrior of Darkness walks among us. Miracles are given form all around us.”

You bend down to press a gentle kiss on his parted lips. It is silken and soft, save for his hands which come hard at your hips, steadying you. 

“You would have me?” He asks, quiet and vulnerable.

You kiss him again, lingering.

“I would.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always thank you for reading! 🖤 man we really got fed well in 5.4, huh? that dumbass lives rent-free in my head at all times tbh


	5. fuel the pyre.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _“If,” he breathes against your throat, “you wish to be unbound, you need only say the word, my Warrior.”_
>> 
>> _He called your title with the reverence of a lover, soft and affectionate. Were you dear to him, then? Was this not merely scratching each other’s itches, rendering a service?_
>> 
>> _You nod your assent, heart pounding in your breast like Steppe wardrums._
>> 
>> _“Then,” he murmurs, rising up, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks, “let us begin.”_
> 
> CW: the fic-wide bondage/light bdsm warnings are effective immediately, as well as CW specifically here for edging, overstimulation, orgasm denial, and crying from overstimulation. 

_if i was born a blackthorn tree  
_ _i’d want to be felled by you,  
_ _held by you,  
_ _fuel the pyre of your enemies.  
_ || nothing fucks with my baby — hozier ||

* * *

“I fear you may have me at a disadvantage. I have never engaged in… _this_ sort of love play before.” The Crystal Exarch kneels before you in genuflection for the second time this day, a coil of rope in your lap alongside a satin blindfold. 

His quarters were as you expected; ascetic, modest, and spartan, with the distinct touch of a bibliophile. Books, tomes, and scrolls were scattered everywhere, his desk disastrously organized. You found yourself yearning to leaf through every letter, ponder over his handwriting and the curious politics that went on behind the scenes of the well-oiled machine that was the Crystarium.

But such matters were far from your mind.

“There is no disadvantage. Neither have I,” you try to assure him, “Any knowledge I may have of this is strictly from…” you blush to admit it, but only honesty would find you a clear path through this madness, “…bawdy literature, I’m afraid.”

The Exarch’s answering grin is sweet, teasing, a touch youthful. “Then we are of the same background. Do you have… a preference, for how you wish for your arms to be bound?”

“I suppose that will depend on…” you duck your head in embarrassment, “h-how you wish to have me.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose… that would be a deciding factor.”

His hands still in your lap, each resting on your kneecaps. On purest impulse, you take the right one—the crystalline one—into your hands. You run your fingers over the blunt jagged edges, the knobs of his knuckles and interlace your fingers, rough-hewn Spoken against sapphire gemstones made animate. 

“How much do you feel?” you whisper. 

“Some—mostly pressure, not so much… texture, if that makes sense.”

A wicked impulse takes you; you lift his hand up to your mouth, guide his thumb to rest on your lips, and close around him.

He hisses as if burned, says your name like a curse.

You release him with a grin.

Kneeling before you, he no longer has the aura of a supplicant or worshipper; rather a warrior posed to strike, a coeurl waiting for the chance to take its prey. 

“Well? Truss me up, will you?” You say innocently, presenting your wrists for him.

He picks up the coiled rope; jute, worn smooth from use over the years, and lifts your arms above your head. Every loop around your wrists drives you further into a dark oblivion you did not know existed within you, a strange space where only _he_ mattered, his desires, his drives. He would use you as he would and you would eagerly beg for more—should he desire it. 

You can’t stop the gasp that slips from your lips when he ties the knot tight.

The bonds are tight enough to keep you from slipping free, but not enough to hurt. You can comfortably rest your bound hands in your lap or above your head… and you wonder how he’ll have you.

“Tell me about the bawdy literature you read,” he says distractedly, checking over the knots meticulously. 

“T-the name escapes me, but it dealt with a certain Roegadyn… _mistress,”_ you breathe, “and her various clientele. She used bondage, blindfolds, pain, all to drive her submissives to the brink of pleasure itself.” 

His hands slide up your forearms, gentle, slow, raising gooseflesh as they moved upwards to your shoulders before cupping your neck. His touch is unbearably _warm._

“And what did you make of this?” 

Surely, his thumb resting over your pulse, he could _feel_ the desire racing through you. 

“I wanted it,” you confess, “more than I care to admit.” 

“This isn’t merely about concealing my identity,” he states. Surely he can scent your desire on the wind as he picks up the blindfold, a makeshift scrap of satin, and, brushing your hair aside, covers your eyes. He ties it securely behind your head. The reality of what you were doing rushes into you, your breathing ragged and gasping in your ears. “I suppose for both of us… there are _other_ desires at play here.” 

In this place, there is no primordial Light seeping into every crack of your soul. You can forget— so long as the blindfold occludes your vision — about the trials ahead, knowing that you’re safe in kind, loving hands, that you aren’t alone in this journey… 

You hear a rustle of fabric—had he pushed his hood back?—and then he is moving on you, those mismatched hands cradling your face with tenderness, his lips brushing over your forehead, once, twice—skimming down to the tip of your nose, then across to the flushed apple of your cheek, hands canting your head up to drift downwards to nip at the angle of your jaw, slow, languid, tasting you, and testing you.

His restraint.

Your obedience. 

“If,” he breathes against your throat, “you wish to be unbound, you need only say the word, my Warrior.” 

He called your title with the reverence of a lover, soft and affectionate. Were you dear to him, then? Was this not merely scratching each other’s itches, rendering a service? 

You nod your assent, heart pounding in your breast like Steppe wardrums. 

“Then,” he murmurs, rising up, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks, “let us begin.” 

* * *

Power is intoxicating; the age-long tempter of fates, tipper of scales, corrupter of conquerors. You would be hard-pressed to find someone immune to its allure, and G’raha was no exception to this rule. He had shirked it, as much as one could, even as the people of Norvrandt thrust it upon his shoulders. _Lord Exarch,_ they called him, adding titles where there were none, personas where he only provided shadows. 

He could only begin to equate the levin in his blood to when he first allowed the Tower to take hold of him, beginning the slow, inevitable process of his joining. To be the sole descendant of Allag, wielding the Tower’s infinite strength, was to behold the cosmos in an instant. Galaxies danced at his fingertips if only he so desired. 

And the Tower _wanted_ to be used. Begged to be wielded by him, cut down all who might oppose him with the might of Allag if only he so chose.

But to see _her,_ the Warrior of Light and Darkness, bound and blindfolded before him, pink lips parted in anticipation…

_I would be at your mercy._

How often had he dreamed of taking her here, on this bed meant only for one? And here she was, corporeal and waiting on his word.

 _Gods,_ he couldn’t breathe..

He sits down beside her on the bed, leaning back to rest his back against the wall, and pulls her towards him. She follows his touch, pliant and boneless, and he guides her into his lap, her thighs parting easily to straddle his hips, her comfortable weight settling squarely on him. She hesitates for a moment before hooking her bound arms around his neck, leaning forward til their noses brush, clumsy and lingering.

“I apologize,” he breathes, “Truth be told, I am… _overwhelmed._ ”

Her answering laugh is soft, sweet. She presses a kiss to his lips to punctuate it. “I can tell,” she murmurs. “What overwhelms you, then?” 

His hands skim down her back, and she arches into his touch with a delighted hum. “That you would be so willing to allow such a thing to happen to you—that you would do such a thing with _me._ I scarcely know where to begin.”

“I meant what I said, Exarch. I’m yours to command.” She cants her hips forward, arching her back to flatten her chest against his. “Do you not wish to celebrate the return of the night? We are certainly not the only coupling to occur this most auspicious of days.”

It is passing strange to look upon her without the glamoured cowl. It didn’t occlude his vision—merely cast a certain darkness over it—but there is something to be said for being able to look upon her openly, as much G’raha Tia as he ever would be again. 

He had sworn he would atone for his sins—but here he was, a hapless sinner beneath her, helpless to her desires. 

Well, if he had no hope of redemption…

“Oh, I would celebrate,” he breathes.

…perhaps penitence was in order. 

He slants his lips over hers and she rewards him with a delighted gasp, parting her lips against his, wine-laden and heavenly, the kiss a low ember ready to spark. Perhaps he may have taken his time with her, if she didn’t slide her mouth open, warm tongue tentative yet _persuasive_ . He fists his hand in her mussed locks, the other hand sliding down her arched back to rest at her the swell of her hip… and then she bucks forward, rocking her pelvis onto him, and he can’t help but crush her down onto him, eager for a modicum of relief. She nips at his bottom lip, catching it between her teeth and dragging, purring her satisfaction, _achingly_ slow. 

He feels _unbearably_ warm, the hand at her hip sliding upwards, curving tentatively around one full breast, and she makes a delighted noise, arching into his touch. He’s burning up beneath her, and he fears—

he _knows—_

 _—_ she will leave nothing but ash in her wake. 

“I want,” he gasps, shuddering when she kisses down his jaw, “to… that is, if _you_ want…” 

“Yes?” she breathes against his skin. 

“To kiss you, down…”

“…down…?” 

The crystal hand at her breast ghosts down her body, over her taut thigh and between, and she _bucks_ into his touch, as if she would ride his hand into oblivion if he let her, and he chokes on a clenched moan. 

“I want you to,” she whispers, “I want you to _badly…_ ” 

By the _gods,_ she leaves him breathless. 

She’s falling backwards, he forwards—she trembles beneath him when he slips his hands beneath her tunic, pulling it up and over her breasts, ghosting over ilms and ilms of taut flesh and scars as he goes, pausing to kiss the rough-hewn edges of healed flesh. 

“You don’t,” she gasps, “need to… do that…”

He pauses, ears flattening. “Do you not enjoy it?”

“N-No, I do, I just know they’re… not the _prettiest_ to look at—“ 

“But,” he breathes against her skin, watching as the gooseflesh rises, smoothing his hands over her ribs, “I want nothing more.” 

He works his way down, starting with the slash bisecting her sternum, dragging slow, gentle kisses down the raised scar. “If I were your prophet,” he whispers, “I would foretell of your grace, your _bravery_ and dignity in battle—“ His mouth comes to the puckered circle of a bullet wound, thorough in his conquest, “—make a portent of how _deserving_ you are of worship—“ two ragged gouges from lethal claws across the dip of her waist, and he lets his breath drift over them, “—erect a tabernacle to the religion that is your beauty—“ he comes to the soft flesh of her belly, unable to resist biting into the soft flesh, watching her squirm; “—and serve as your supplicant, from now to the end of days.” 

She makes a strangled noise behind clenched teeth, her legs coming hard around him, pressing, _needing_ —

He had wondered where this point would be for him. He thought, _surely,_ it was that first blasted night, crushing her into the wooden table, but he realized then, as he watched her pant and writhe, as she pleaded a broken cry of “yes, yes, _yes—_ “ when he slipped his fingers into her leggings, tugging them down—

Here is where they crossed the point of no return. 

And try as he may…

…he couldn’t find it in himself to resist. 

* * *

His words rang like church bells in your ears, clamorous and incandescent— _dignity, worship, supplicant—_ how did such murmurs fall from his tongue like warm cream, igniting even the darkest parts of you, angling your hips upwards eagerly as he tugs down your smalls?

No one had ever spoken to you like that.

And no one had ever done _this_ before either. 

“If you should wish for me to cease,” he whispers, and you barely catch his voice over how _loud_ your breathing is, “simply say the word.” 

“I doubt I shall—“ you snip, and then his mouth—that warm, sultry, _beautiful_ mouth—kisses the tender flesh of your thighs, eliciting a squeak from you. 

You’d heard rumors of such acts, in the bawdy romance novels nicked from seedy bars, an off-tune jibe by Thancred—but never had such a thing _performed_ on you, although you had certainly imagined it not a few times. But as his lips work closer and closer to your apex, you find your mind elsewhere, disparate and anxious; what if he didn’t enjoy it, or you did the wrong thing? What if he found you undesirable, or—

or—

His lips are on _you,_ soft, silken, tongue drifting across your slit, and his hands are spreading across your arched body, a wordless cry spilling from your lips when he licks, tempting, teasing, _tasting_ you. 

By the _Twelve,_ you wanted this blindfold off. Wanted to see his head between your thighs, watch the way his eyes bore into you as he worked—what color would you find there? 

Many flit through your mind, visible even through the blindfold—argent, aureate, cerulean, violent heliotrope—but only one lingers.

Darkest bloodsoaked vermillion. 

His hands whisper down your body, each one gripping a thigh, spreading you apart for him, and though your sight is robbed you know something _changes_ in the man—a dark, possessive growl rips from his throat, nuzzling into your wet flesh, mouthing desperate, plaintive. He hitches your thighs over his shoulders and you realize with a thrill you can feel his silken hair spilling over your thighs. You yearn to card your fingers through it. But it’s a cause promptly abandoned, because he finds his prize, and you feel a pleased, smug smile curve _into_ you as you cry out, tossing your head, thrashing against your binds.

“Please don’t stop,” you find yourself begging, “Exarch, _please…_ ” 

“Would you trust me?” he whispers, the same tender words as before, “if I made a torment of pleasure for you?” 

_A torment…?_

Curiosity overtakes you; you nod your assent, and his fingers dig into your flesh, claiming, _owning._ He drags the flat of his tongue across your pearl and you cannot help but grind against his mouth, greedy for more, more, _more—_

The blunted edges of his crystal hand slide against you, frictionless and slick, and he slides one thick finger into you, picking up a ragged pace, and all your muscles are coiling, the verge of oblivion right _there—_

—and he ceases entirely, so sharply you wonder if something had happened, until you feel a warm chuckle across the jumping muscles of your thigh. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “deep breaths.” 

You obey, confused and helpless, struggling to slow the ragged pace of your breathing, striving to match the easy, even gust of his breath across your thigh. It is far from overwhelming—but a knot of frustration builds deep within you—

—likely by design. 

And you feel that same smug grin bury into you _again,_ faster, needier, _hungrier_ than the last, and this time two crystal fingers slip within, knuckle by knuckle, the girth _delicious,_ the primal desire to be filled, conquered, _devoured—_

You find yourself bucking into his hand, wanting so desperately to get to that plateau again, to feel his eyes _burning_ into you despite the cloth and the instant you think you’re upon it…

… same as the last time, the Exarch releases you, and you can’t stifle the frustrated sob that escapes your bruised lips. 

“You’re doing so well,” he reassures you, sliding up your body to capture your lips. He tastes—and _smells—_ of you, and his mouth parts so easily for you as you try to taste everything, the profanity of it a curious, erotic thing. You lift your bound arms around his neck, catching a lock of his hair between clenched fingers. “How are you feeling?”

“Confused,” you admit, “frustrated, but I suspect that’s what you meant by a _torment._ ”

His answering laugh is boyish and impossibly charming, the plush swell of his lips curving against yours. “’Tis true. Would you permit me to torture you for a while longer, I wonder? They say the sweetest pleasures lies in patience, and I find myself curious.” 

You nod, and your torturer chuckles sweetly, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before descending down your shivering body once more.

He drives you to the brink once, twice, _three_ more times, each one edging ever closer to the precipice where you knew nirvana lay, the drop even steeper before you are pulled backwards by him as he whispers words of encouragement, of pride, of comfort into your flushed, trembling flesh. 

By the sixth time, your mind is a blank slate, a razed land in the wake of his inferno. He is a slow, agonizing burn that narrows your scope down to the thick fingers fucking you, that _godsdamned_ mouth working you without tire, and this time, for the first time—

—you find yourself fearful of your climax, for what could possibly come after? Muscles you never knew existed within you clench and unclench, wrists straining against your bonds, your body contorting into a clenched comma around him—

“I… oh _gods,_ I can’t… I’m going… please, let me, _please,_ Exarch...” How easily the pleas fall from your lips now, wings beating cacophonous in your ears, even your hearing leaving you as it builds, builds—

His restraint.

Your obedience.

“Let go,” he commands, “come undone for me, my dear, let yourself _fall_.” 

And you _sob_ as the orgasm overtakes you, your wild cry echoing through the vaunted ceilings, ringing in your ears as you arch. It is complete overwhelm, untamed ecstacy and wildest bliss you had ever known.

You find yourself a heap in the bedclothes, dimly aware of the Exarch unbinding your wrists, rubbing one and then the other, patient and tender. When your blindfold slips away, the room seems too bright; and his shadowed visage before you is _blinding._

He runs a gentle hand down your back, watching with a patient smile as you struggle to collect yourself. 

“I’ve never…” your throat feels raw, ripped asunder by your screams, “felt anything like _that_ before.” 

“And how did it feel?” he asks gently, massaging slow, mesmerizing circles into your lower back. 

“Like I’d never come back from it,” you admit, “I couldn’t think, I couldn’t _breathe…_ where in the seven hells did you learn such a thing?” 

He chuckles, embarrassed, the vulnerability sweet. “Bawdy literature.”

You come up on your arms, incredulous. “You and I have been reading _very_ different novels.” 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asks then, shy and quiet. 

Searching for approval—

— _your_ approval. 

You clutch at his hood and bring his mouth tight against yours, exhaling a breathy “Gods, _yes,”_ against his mouth. 

His answering smile is sweeter than any dawn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy oh boy have i been waiting to get this one out there! hope ya'll enjoyed 🖤


	6. painted blind.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _There is a darkness in his voice, smoky and umbral, that you were beginning to grow very, very fond of._
>> 
>> _“I do not wish to show our hand prematurely. Forgive me this liberty.”_
>> 
>> _Your heart thrums in anticipation, for you had no idea at what his stratagem was._
>> 
>> _“Vanish.”_
> 
> No CWs apply. 

_“love looks not with the eyes  
_ _but with the mind;  
_ _and therefore is wing’d cupid  
_ _painted blind.”  
_ a midsummer night’s dream || [1.1.240-241]

* * *

The first true dawn in a century broke over the Crystarium, resplendent in its refulgence. Sapphire hues of nightfall bleed into streaks of champagne and dusky rose, unfettered sunlight setting crystal facets ablaze and bronze detailing gleaming. The entire world feels inexplicably _new._

You sit in the windowsill, letting the morning kiss your skin, breaking your fast on fresh lemon-blueberry scones the housemaid had so graciously provided. And while you should have bathed in the fruits of your labor made manifest in the atmosphere… 

…your mind could not have been further from your duties. 

The marks from where you’d been bound still lay on your skin like braids of fire, a reminder of your tryst with the Crystal Exarch. You absently run your fingers over them, wondering how long they’d linger, finding yourself hoping it would take many suns for them to disappear. 

Last night…

… would you ever feel quite the same, after what he’d wrought upon you? You were sore in places you hadn’t known you could ache in, and a deepset hunger kindling in your belly—

—you hadn’t reckoned how _difficult_ it would be to walk away from this, for you found yourself wondering when you might see him again, when would you be able to meet with him _alone_ …

“And how did you sleep, Warrior of Darkness?” 

Ardbert’s voice is wry from behind you, warm and rough, a woolen blanket over you. 

“Well,” you say truthfully, taking a sip of your lavender tea before clearing your throat. “Sleeping with the everlasting Light has felt impossible, and the night’s return is welcome in many ways.” 

“It’s almost a blessing,” he scoffs, “that I’ve been naught but a shade for so long. I cannot imagine bearing witness to so many ceaseless days… like the Crystal Exarch surely has.”

“I imagine he is as much relieved as anyone to see the end.” The bait in his voice is palpable, and you do your best to disregard it. 

“You walk a dangerous path, my friend,” he sighs. “I can only caution you to watch your step—I speak as someone who has done many, _many_ foolish things in my life.”

“That seems to be a common moral to your stories.”

“What, ‘don’t do what I did?’ You’re entirely correct.” There’s a smile in his voice, bittersweet and gentle. “Get going, then, hero. The world won’t save itself.” 

Ardbert spoke truly; the Crystarium buzzed with electric tension, even the innkeep unable to keep himself calm. But the return of night made the streets of the Exedra feel indelibly different, the very spirit of the city altered overnight. 

_“For the one possessed of her blessing… for you.”_

You shudder as you press open the doors to the Dossal Gate.

“You are come at a good time. As you may have heard, we have something of a quandary on our hands.” The Crystal Exarch gestures to the vision painted on the scrying glass. “Laxan Loft, here in Lakeland. Eulmore has sent one of its airships. They have questions for us concerning the death of the Lightwarden. Their emissary makes his way here even as we speak.” 

“I suppose the sky rather does give the game away.” Alisaie huffs, arms crossed over her chest. Her voice is a few onzes lighter, perhaps a small reprieve from the oppressive grief lingering in her heart. You _hoped_ Alisaie found whatever strength she needed in the ruins of Holminster Switch. 

“Indeed.” The Exarch’s voice, while dry, doesn’t sound resigned or frustrated; rather, there is a sense that he has weathered many such storms before and would weather many, many more. Entirely different from the two shades of him you’d become acquainted with. “’Twas inevitable that they would come knocking. The only question was how soon. 

There is a gentle knock at the door, respectful and quick. “My lord,” Lyna’s clipped voice rings out, “I am come with the Eulmoran emissary. May I show him in?”

“A moment, Captain, if you would.” The Exarch calls. He wipes clean the scrying glass with a wave of his gilded staff. Then, he gives you and your companions a conspiratorial look, and gestures to the edge of the room. “Everyone, gather round.” 

There is a darkness in his voice, smoky and umbral, that you were beginning to grow very, _very_ fond of. 

You and the twins stand before him, and he spares a glance to the door before dropping his voice into low intonations. 

“I do not wish to show our hand prematurely. Forgive me this liberty.” 

Your heart thrums in anticipation, for you had no idea at what his stratagem was. 

_“Vanish.”_

Another sweep of his staff, the quartz embedded in the head glimmering with purest aether. An icy chill of umbral magicks rushes in your veins, sending a shudder from the tip of your head all the way to the very tips of your toes as you and your companions fade into transparency. 

And then, his dark features staring straight at you, the Exarch lifts a Spoken index finger to his lips, a knowing smirk on the plush swell of his lips that sends a thrill down your spine. He inclines his head, bidding you all to keep your silence. 

If ever you thought the Exarch a foolish or naive man, you would not do so again. 

The very aether shifts around him, a different persona in its place—a persona very like the one you encountered last night. 

Commanding.

Self-possessed. 

_Hell-bent._

The bronze key settles to the floor again, his shoulders straightened, reminding you implacably of Emperor Xande. The gold veins glimmer in his forearm. “Enter.” 

Ran'jit proved to be as distasteful as you had ever expected, but in direct contradiction, as if heralding from a wholly different era, he Is ascetic and worn to the bone, a far cry from the debauchery and indolence of Eulmore. 

The Exarch’s timbre is condescending with a forced lightness, as if Ran'jit was hardly worth his time. You had to cover a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh—

—you hadn’t imagined he could ever sound so _vindictive._

_A throaty chuckle smothered into the flesh of your thigh—_

You banish the thought from your mind. 

Ran'jit’s lips curve in a sneer as he spits out a final threat to the Exarch, before about-facing smartly on his heel and striding towards the doors—

—and then he halts in his tracks, swiveling slowly, his coal black eyes finding _you._

You hold your breath, fingers itching already for the hilt of your blade.

“One last matter.” Ran'jit grates out. “We are searching for a dancer and her assistant. Know you of whom I speak?”

“A dancer and her assistant… No, I cannot say I do.” The lie falls off his tongue, easy as butter. 

“What a pity,” Ran'jit simpers. “Should they _reveal_ themselves to you, I bid you hand them over at once. My master is most eager to _see_ her again.”

Your stomach revolts in disgust. 

_“Then you shall be my newest pet, little Honeybee. If I find you pleasing, then I may excuse this display of insolence.”_

It would be a simple matter, to slice his fat head off his shoulders. 

Ran'jit leaves, the Ocular reeking of burnt aether and gunpowder, and the Exarch slams the butt of his staff into the ground. Your skin scrawls as you become opaque once more. 

“Am I imagining things, or did he just stare straight at us?” 

The promise of battle rings in your veins.

The Exarch frowns. “I fear he did.”

* * *

The gaudy, blinding colors of the tale of the Oracle of Light linger in your mind, chased away by gunpowder and the acrid stench of decaying aether rolling across lavender fields.

Dressed in the Crystarium’s sanguine colors—and you didn’t fail to notice what a close _match_ it was to the Exarch’s own sash—Captain Lyna puts you through the paces of what it was to serve the Crystarium, and you and the Leveilleur twins find yourselves beset on the messy battlefield of Laxan Loft. Fierce skirmishes break out all around as you carve a path through countless Sin Eaters, their bleached and blighted feathers littering the ground amid the gore. 

But you do not aim for a slaughter—this is, first and foremost, a rescue. 

And before long, you are tumbling forth into the foggy fields of Il Mheg.

Perhaps it is simply the way of the realm of the faeries, but everything—all your worries, concerns, duties, grievances—fade away into obscurity as you gaze upon the fields of flora and fauna, preserved by the careful, tricksy hands of the fae folk. 

Even cloaked in mist, you had never seen fields so verdant. Flowers flourish beneath the everlasting Light, yellows, pinks, ceruleans. There is magick, wild and ancient, in every ilm of the land. 

It is strange beyond reckoning to meet Minfilia, the girl so like yet _unlike_ her predecessor, who trembles like a leaf beneath your gaze yet wields the daggers befitting only a rogue. Her hair is the precise shade of burnished wheat of the Antecedent, and her eyes are a cloudy, blighted blue, so bright you wondered if you would see them glowing even in nightfall. 

Just as his young charge’s nature has changed, so too has Thancred’s. 

His snow white coat blazes in the everlasting Light, and he is at once the same and indelibly _not._ Fatherhood, you think to yourself, has certainly changed the man. 

But such a mantle did not come easily to him, and you could see his back bowed with the effort. 

You endeavored to pry the thorn out of him, with liquor and starlight, just as you had done in Coerthas. 

But before then, there was much and more work to be done—and a Lightwarden to be put to the sword.

* * *

Long, gloved fingers come into his view, setting a bundle of papers wrapped with twine carefully on his desk. The Exarch jerks his head up from his work, startled by her quiet presence. Lyna’s gentle lavender eyes linger on him, serene and humored.

“My lord.” She brandishes that Crystarium salute, an effigy adopted from Voeburt customs and made inimitable from the Crystarium. “Logs from the aqueduct testing, and the maps of Lakeland, as requested. A missive from Bookman Augurelt came as well.”

“Ah, my thanks.” The Exarch closes his hand around the papers, leafing through them, extracting one of the maps he’d been so curious to inspect. 

“My lord—“ Lyna clears her throat. “That is— _grandfather.”_

He looks up from his papers, startled into silence. How long had it been, since she last called him such? 

“Speak your mind, Lyna.” He smiles. He need not say it, for Lyna had only ever been bluntly honest with him. Such was the way of the Viis. 

“I have known you for almost fifty years, and I feel I know your moods as well as anyone, and as such, I can tell that… something has shifted, since… _she_ arrived.”

His heart pounds. _She knows, she knows,_ it beats out.

He struggles to collect himself before speaking, forcing his voice into something verging disinterest. “I would daresay something has shifted in all of us, since darkness returned to Lakeland.”

“It is more than that, I—“ she sighs, looking askance. “While on my rounds I saw the Warrior of Darkness leave the Tower last night— _late._ Late enough to give one pause.”

Only by the grace of his cowl and the century of falsehoods was he able to keep a straight face. “There was much that needed to be said, and she had questions regarding—“

Lyna holds up a hand. “I do not require explanation—and in fact, I would prefer it,” she says wryly. “I merely...” She shuffles, for a mere instant the gangly, long-limbed girl telling him she’d stolen a bottle of wine from the Stairs, “… I speak as a granddaughter, and cannot help but worry.” 

His heart softens at her words. “Thank you, Lyna, truly.”

Captain Lyna hesitates, one foot poised behind her, to either turn or pirouette, but evidently habit takes over, and she turns towards the heavy gilded doors, giving him one last look before leaving him alone with his documents. 

He would drag all around him down with his foolishness. 

* * *

The dress, the crown, the scepter, the shoes—

The relics glimmer before you, phantasmal and resplendent.

Feo Ul’s wings buzz like a hummingbird’s, and they peer into your features with a curious look.

“What is this, my _[sapling?]”_ They hum. “Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you look as if you are seriously considering the mantle.”

Your mouth gapes open; you slam it shut, looking askance, face heating with embarrassment. “I must admit… I find myself drawn to this land, even as I know it is likely the charms of the faefolk. Would it not be an easier path? Would I not be better equipped to slaughter the Lightwardens, save our worlds?”

Feo Ul stretches a slender hand and rests it on your cheek. Their needle sharp nails graze your skin lovingly, and you close your eyes with a sigh. “You would make a beautiful King,” they tell you, “and truthfully, I would wish for no other.”

Lightwarden Titania blazes behind your eyes; their beauty, otherworldly and intoxicating… the fragrance of roses scarcely concealing the stench of mortification all around.

Her teeth like razors. 

Those eyes, senseless and long insane. 

How much was the effect of the Light, and how much was the mantle of monarchy? 

“My _[dear sapling],”_ Feo Ul titters, “There is something amiss in your heart, is there not?”

You meet their eyes, the slate grey of stones in a riverbed, and find yourself unable to look away.

Your heart _aches_ to give way the entire game. 

“There is,” you finally manage, sounding pained, “a… _matter,_ which has regrettably taken up much of my mind.”

They shake their head. “No, your mind is clear as a groundspring in winter; it is your heart, my _[sapling],_ which keens. And I think I know why for—or, _who_ for.” 

You stay silent, wallowing in their cool gaze. 

“The Crystal Exarch is suffering from a guilt the likes of which I have never seen—murderers have felt less over their sins.” They cross their arms over their chest, huffing. “Such is the ephemeral nature of love, I suppose.” 

“It is not—“ you shake your head. There was no point in lying about what they surely must have seen. “What happened between us was _not_ love.” 

Feo Ul cocks their head, hair tumbling like an autumnal zephyr, and barks an ugly laugh. “Ha! Could have fooled me. I had suspected he pined for a lost love, but I did not expect it to be my _[adorable sapling!]_ Curious and curiouser.” 

_A lost love…?_

“Me?” you blurt. “But, we’ve never met before—which is why this… _quandary_ is so troubling… I—“

“I have known the Exarch a long time—twice the time you’ve been alive, _[my sapling]_ , and when I tell you he _glows_ in your presence, I do not mince words. Now,” and they flit upwards into the sky, the stained glass windows painting them in streaks of cerulean and crimson, “Your _[lovely branch]_ shall take this burden for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always love toying with the idea of wol taking titania's throne, and i feel like under the circumstances they might be particularly inclined to accept haha. thank you so much for reading 🖤


	7. bitter end.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what we did,” you whisper, “and thinking about what else we could do.”_
>> 
>> _He falls silent, his tongue darting out to wet his parted lips._
>> 
>> _“Have you?” he breathes._
> 
> No CWs apply. 

_“o time, thou must untangle this, not i.  
_ _it is too hard a knot for me t’untie.”  
_ twelfth night [2.2.40-41]

* * *

Emet-Selch speaks with a lilting, disdainful voice, watching you with aureate eyes set in an exhausted frame. He reeks of nightshade and tobacco cloaking the sickly-sweet stench of death. His words were steel lined with velvet, dramatics veiling sanguinary intent. As he spoke, those glimmering eyes never left yours, heavy-lidded and predatory. 

You cannot shake the unease in every ilm of you as you enter your quarters, marveling at how thoroughly everything was neatened. And then…

… A wicker basket lined with a checkerboard cloth catches your eye, filled to the brim with fresh sandwiches, the bread so fresh it was fragrant in the air, and laid before it, a simple card.

The handwriting was slanted and elegant, your fingers absently tracing over the ink. While you’d never seen his handwriting before, there was no doubt in your mind _who_ this missive was from. 

_“I hope the past few days have not been overly taxing. Pray take your rest and recover.”_

Your heart hammers in your breast, tears stinging your eyes as you take a steadying breath. Had he made them himself? Somehow the image of the Exarch in a kitchen, patiently baking bread and putting sandwiches together feels wholly out of place in your mind, and yet… 

Unbidden, his words, bitter and clipped over dregs of wine, ring out in your mind.

_“I want nothing more, then to serve you in any capacity you would allow.”_

His kindness would undo you—undo you _both._

“From the Exarch, is it?” Ardbert interrupts your reverie, the bitter tendrils of his aether brushing your hair. “With that mirror of his, he can watch your every move, you know. He’ll probably think you’re talking to yourself.” 

You huff a laugh as Ardbert leans over to inspect the sandwiches. 

“Still, he’s keeping you well-fed.” He says begrudgingly, a rueful smile playing on his lips. “Judging by his people’s faith, he seems a decent sort.” 

Your stomach snarls its protest in your belly; you had been too skittish of the fae food to eat a bite besides your own rations, and you’re plucking a sandwich—egg sandwich, the yolks rich as sunshine—and shoveling it into your mouth. 

Ardbert sighs. “You know, you don’t realize how much you miss eating until you can’t.” 

You take a thick swallow. “I’d share if I could,” you promise. 

“But so much of him remains shrouded in mystery,” he continues, “like what was he doing back in my day? There was no such person when I was around.” 

“I don’t reckon he was even here,” you counter. 

Ardbert shrugs in concession. “A lot’s happened since the Flood, though. Since I was… set adrift.” the sorrow of one hundred years of exile suffuses his voice. “I know little more than you do of this city’s history and the Exarch’s past.

“Not that it matters.” He crosses his arms then, resolute, a Warrior once more. “It’s Emet-Selch we should be concerned about.” 

Your eyes narrow at his words. “What do you make of him—and the Ascians?” 

He takes a great, steadying breath. “When our world was about to be consumed by Light, the Ascian in white appeared before us. He said that the only way for us to live on was to bring about the Rejoining. And desperate as we were, we heeded his words, not realizing that the Flood was of the Ascians’ own making.”

He meets your eyes, an ocean preserved indefinitely. “They cannot be trusted. None of them.”

“I had surmised as much,” you say bitterly, wiping your mouth with the back of a gloved hand. 

“Emet-Selch had one thing right,” Ardbert sighs. “One should not fight blindly. That’s what we did—and it cost us everything we held dear.” 

“Not everything,” you found yourself saying with a smile. 

You talk late into the evening with Ardbert, sharing stories of his adventures with Seto, how he found him as a beaten mule, how he became his inseparable partner in crime. And you regale him with your own tales of your chocobo, recalling how you picked them out for his sharp eyes on a drizzly day in Bentbranch Meadows, their scarlet feathers glimmering with fresh rain.

Disparate though you were, Warrior of Light and Warrior of Darkness in twain…

… there was much and more you had in common with one another. 

* * *

No small degree of the Exarch’s work was dedicated wholly to paperwork. Treatises and missives to be drafted and sent out to interests in Kholusia, spies in Eulmore, countless pages and tomes of research to be collected, backreading on aetherial properties… the work was endless. 

Knowing what lay upon the horizon, he had endeavored to halt what matters he could. But the Crystarium’s matters and interests could never completely be stopped; for she was a living, breathing entity, a garden in flourish, a clock always in motion, ticking ever onwards. Most matters were left to various experts and community appointed leaders, but there were some matters none would entrust to any save the Exarch, for he had navigated the tricky waters of political intrigue longer than most had been alive. 

Sleep was an easy thing to forgo for one such as he, a living extension of the Tower. But whether he desired to sleep or not, he agonized into the small bells of the night whether he could call upon _her_ or not. What had she made of his offering? Were his instincts on her tastes correct or entirely erroneous? He was sorely tempted to use the scrying glass—but he resisted, telling himself he would either seek her out, or quiet his worries until the morning.

After all, if Captain Lyna had seen evidence of their tryst, what might others see? 

And would she even desire him to visit her in such a way? Their last parting had been pleasant indeed, but what if he mistook her pleasure for anything more than it was? 

The memories of their night together—the first night in a century of Light, shared with the Warrior of Darkness—crowded his mind, all sense of duty and morality pushed away. She took up entirely _too_ much room in his head, and those memories…

… the taste of only _her_ on his lips…

… the sweet plaintive sounds she made, bound and blindfolded, all for _him_ … 

His heart hammers in his breast, a fever in his blood. 

By the stars, he had _missed_ her these few suns. 

His ears pricked forward as he heard the tell-tale noises of the Tower’s doors open. He had no doubt of who it was, the only such person who was admitted without question by the Crystarium guard, the only one who knew how to enter his chambers. 

The only one he had trusted in these long lonely years. 

Without bothering to hood himself, he calls. “Enter.”

Urianger Augurelt, the Bookman of Il Mheg, enters in a sweep of midnight robes and gilded stars. “Lord Exarch,” he intones politely, closing the door behind him. “And how does thee fair this blessed night?”

Since he had revealed himself to Urianger, it had been an unspoken rule that he spoke to him and him alone without his cowl. Partially for his own selfish desires—to be seen, called his born name, something approaching mortal for a few midnight bells—but also an acknowledgement that they never hid the truth of matters from one another. 

It is easy, far too easy, to lose sight of one’s self when they deceived those they held dearest. 

But liars though they may be, they could not abandon their principles. And temporal honesty would strive to keep them even.

“Well,” he replies. He shuffles the papers—he’d been drafting a letter to interests in Amh Araeng—and sets them to the side, dropping his quill back into its inkwell. He holds a finger to his lips—and the room falls quiet, a soundproofing spell cast upon the chambers. “And how went Titania’s slaughter?” 

“The fae folk were most gracious in assisting us,” Urianger says, folding his long body into one of the Exarch’s chairs, “and the Warrior resisted the sirencall of the mantle of Titania. But,” his eyes glimmer, brightest gold in the aetherlight, “’tis naught for such matters which I visit thee.” 

Urianger dictates their bizarre meeting with the Ascian Emet-Selch, even going so far as to find a volume on Garlean history from the shelves and presenting it, an ornate relief print of Legatus and Emperor Solus zos Galvus, arrogant and bored in gilded Garlean finery. “But no such Ascian as we have encountered before hath revealed themselves so fully,, and predicting him shall be a trial indeed.”

“It is not unprecedented nor surprising that an Ascian would seek to stop that which wants to stop his Rejoining,” Raha muses, “but how strange, for him to show his intentions so plainly.” 

“It did not escape my intention that he seemed _particularly_ interested in thine Warrior of Darkness,” he notes. “But she hath been a subject of fascination to the Ascians—of which I am reminded. What doth thou think of yon Warrior?” 

Urianger’s eyes bear into Raha’s own—and he knows lying to him would be an exercise in futility. 

“She’s met every challenge precisely as expected, of course. Her nature has endeared her to all of the Crystarium, and they kindle to her fire. She is every ilm the Warrior of Darkness. But, she will work herself to the bone if allowed, and I am taking measures to ensure she takes her rest.” He brushes the fringe of silvering hair from his eyes, rubs a sore point at the back of his neck.

Urianger smiles wryly. “If I am not mistaken, thou is also thoroughly enchanted by her.” 

His ears flatten to his head, and he cannot meet the bookman’s argent gaze. “Well,” he stammers, “how can one not be, when she is so thoroughly the Warrior of Darkness? The tales scarcely covered the breadth of her heroism.” 

“Thou speaketh true,” he notes, “but thou demeanor is much lightened, and she herself speaks fondly of thee. However…” and Raha makes the mistake of looking up into Urianger’s eyes—lightest gold, burnished to a gleam, “Feo Ul spoketh something strange. Thou carry a guilt like nothing they hath seen before, thy very aether weighed down by the gravity of thy sin.” 

Raha had always been a terrible liar. It wasn’t a gift that came naturally to him—it had to be taught, brute force, and even then, outright falsehoods sounded weak and frail on his tongue. The cowl gave him some ability to lie—

—but before Urianger, the one soul he had spoken the truth to, he had no defenses. 

He covers his face with his hands, mismatched umbral and astral. 

“There was…” he stammers, “an… _incident._ ” 

“Involving her.”

“Yes.” 

Urianger paces, midnight robes sweeping the crystalline gilded floors. Tanned arms crossed over his chest, a scholar puzzling a predicament. “Hath she gazed upon thy visage?” 

“No.” 

“Thou hath exposed thyself to her, jeopardized thine own lifetime of work, the _centuries_ of work from thy predecessors of Garlond Ironworks…” Urianger paces the breadth of the small quarters, his voice harsh and clipped, “and what didst thou enact such a thing for?” 

He has no defense, no higher actions to portend, no morality to place upon his choices. 

Only selfish, base desires.

“I apologize,” he croaks, “it is a poor thanks indeed, to self-sabotage that which you have so tirelessly done to help my cause.”

“I do not wish to hear thine excuses,” Urianger snaps, “nor crass justifications for thine own selfishness.” He turns, facing the bookshelf, before speaking again, soft.

“All that we have done,” he breathes, and there is a curious tremulous quality to his timber, one Raha had only heard on their most weary of nights together, “hath been for the sake of love. How can I begrudge thee, for taking what was offered to thee, from one thyself has worked tirelessly for out of love? For I do not know if I myself could have denied her such a boon.” 

He is speechless in the face of such emotion; Urianger’s Archon mark blazes on his tawny features as he turns to regard Raha. 

“If thou should follow such a path, do me the courtesy of never regretting thy actions. Commit thyself to this course. If she should learn of thy identity… we shall do what we must, and I will keep thy secrets as surely as they are mine own.” 

“I do not deserve your kindness, Urianger,” Raha gasps, relief a strangehold around his throat. “It is more, far more, than I deserve. I cannot thank you enough.”

“I do not speak as I do solely for thine own conscience—happy though I may be to aleve thee of thy pain.” He shoulders broaden, jaw set. “If matters should go awry, with thine Warrior and thee, when she taketh upon the burden of the Light, she would fracture if yoked by a broken heart. Her happiness must be another duty for thee to take on, whether she desireth thy company or not.” 

_Her happiness,_ Raha thinks to himself, _has always been my sworn duty._

* * *

You avail yourself to the amenities of the Pendants, taking a long, indolent soak in the baths and scrubbing your skin clean with a coarse cloth, a restless, nervous energy overtaking you as you work. 

Would he call upon you this night? 

Did he even wish to see you again? 

_“The Crystal Exarch is suffering from a guilt the likes of which I have never seen—murderers have felt less over their sins.”_

Feo Ul’s portent left you questioning and unsure as you left Il Mheg. Did he feel such guilt over your trysts? Over _you?_

And the offering of sandwiches…

There is far too much to consider, this matter becoming far too muddled and complex. Your affairs could be counted on one hand, and none of them had ever been half so troubling. 

Wrapped in one of the clean, warm robes provided, you pad back to your chambers, stifling down the disappointment that the Exarch wasn’t waiting at your door, and instead busying yourself with brewing the lavender tea he’d so graciously given you your first day in Norvrandt, letting your hair dry by the fire as you sipped. Ardbert was nowhere to be seen, and you almost missed his ethereal presence. 

You are curled up at the kitchenette table, halfway to dozing, when the door to your room opens, a shade slipping inside before closing the door behind him. 

You’re up in a trice, grabbing the first thing which comes to hand—a candlestick, the still-lit candle rolling to the floor. But before you can make your attack, the Crystal Exarch appears before you in a gust of aether, hands raised in placation. 

“I apologize,” he stammers, “for any concern I may have caused you.” 

You drop the candlestick, releasing your held breath before sinking back to the kitchenette table. “I feared you may have been…” 

“… An Ascian?” he says wryly. You raise your brows in surprise, and he quickly clarifies. “Urianger met with me earlier and explained your meeting with Emet-Selch. He is a wild card in these matters indeed. I had sought to garner your thoughts on the matter.” 

“And this required being invisible?” you question with a teasing grin. “Slipping into my quarters without so much as a knock?” 

The Exarch shuffles, discomfited, rubbing his forearms and head bowed. Something about seeing him so ill at ease because of you is…

… unbearably _endearing._

“You have me out,” he admits sheepishly, “But I—“

“Stay,” you assure him, coming to your bare feet. You were only dressed in your nightshift, still-damp hair twined over your shoulder, the thin damask brushing the tops of your thighs. “The innkeepers keep this place stocked like a pantry, with wine and liquor aplenty. What’s your vice?” 

“Tea would be—“ he shakes his head. “No. If you have whiskey, I would be glad of it.” 

You fetch the dusty bottle from a cupboard, placing two small glasses on the table before pouring one for each of you. You slide his over before downing your own in one quick bolt, wincing at the fiery sting. There was a spice to the liquor, betokening winter’s chill, seeping down to the very tips of your toes. 

The Exarch takes a slow, measured sip of his own, Spoken hand cradling the glass. It was difficult to pull your eyes way from the way his leather bands, intricate and complex, wrapped over his pale skin, the tendons in his forearms flexing…

His hands were a source of much distraction for you. 

“You smell wonderful,” the Exarch blurts, looking surprised at his own words. 

You blush to the very tips of your ears. 

“Thank you,” you mumble. “’Tis good you came now and not earlier—I fairly reeked to death.” 

He gives a barking laugh—a mirthful noise that surprises you. It is neither dignified nor reserved, a brutally honest noise that befuddles the senses. “Perhaps my delay was fortuitous, then. How have you faired?”

Your words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, a ceaseless torrent you could no longer deny. 

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what we did,” you whisper, “and thinking about what _else_ we could do.”

He falls silent, his tongue darting out to wet his parted lips. 

“Have you?” he breathes. 

Dark.

Hungry. 

His voice rich as whiskey.

You nod, your heart hammering in your breast. Rebellious and quickening to his kindle. 

“Tell me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know why my brain told me 4 am was a good time to post this but, well, here you go.  
> fun fact, "bitter end" refers to the very last end of a rope. i hope ya'll like rope/knot puns! because i have too many.


	8. gordian.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _“Kiss me,” you stammer, shivering._
>> 
>> _The grip grows hard._
>> 
>> _The Exarch tugs you forward in one smooth jerk. You fall into his arms with a gasp, your lips crashing into his as you struggle to find your footing, dazed and hungry._
>> 
>> _“My Warrior,” he whispers, “Before the night is over, I would kiss every last ilm of you.”_
> 
> Content Warning: fic-wide bondage/blindfold warnings apply here. 

_“men tighten the knot of confusion  
_ _into perfect misunderstanding.”  
_ t.s. eliot — the family reunion 

* * *

And she does. 

In a torrent of hesitating, halting words, pushing herself ever on with quick bolts from the whiskey bottle, she details her darkest fantasies to him, eyes bright and glimmering, leaning forward with every word. 

“There’s something freeing,” she stammers, “in surrendering. In submitting. Giving myself over without having to think about consequence or action. Everywhere else, I fight, I’m the Warrior, I serve others… but in the dark, between us…” her hands, calloused and worn, knot themselves inextricably on the table, “… that is, if _you_ desire such things…” 

“I do not think you can understand just how _much_ I desire that,” he whispers, reaching out with his Spoken hand to rest over hers.

“Do…” she clears her throat, laughing to herself. “Gods, we did _that_ and I’m still embarrassed to speak of it! What I mean is, do your tastes run towards… such matters? Truth be told, you do not seem the sort.” 

_Do not be embarrassed,_ he orders himself, but it is a feat easier said than done, and he feels the hot flush of humiliation creep up his neck as he speaks. “The Allagans, advanced though they were, explored many… sorts of sexual practices. While Sharlayan scholars tried to bury what they could, there was an exceptional propensity towards the twin sides of pain and pleasure, and how best to extract such things in loveplay.” His grip on her hands tighten as he struggles to anchor himself in her presence. 

“There are libraries, in the Tower, with hundreds of books on the subject. And…” His courage fails him then; he ducks his head downwards, flushing to the very tips of his ears beneath the shadow of the hood, “they have been a source of some fascination to me, over the years.” 

This was only partly a lie; he had discovered the Allagans special propensity when he was a student of Sharlayan. It started from a bizarre poem he read, detailing two men exploring such boundaries with one another, and then he endeavored to see all there was of such matters. How his blood had quickened reading such material, his mind filling in the gaps where words lapsed, his hands _burning_ to be used, to _use_ in such profane ways. 

“Oh,” she breathes. “ _Oh.”_

“What we did that night… is but a fraction of what I would wrought upon you, if you so desired.” His heart rattles against his ribcage, thunderous and ragged. “The truth is, I would like nothing more than to do such things with you.” 

It is the most honest thing he has ever spoken to her. 

Her cheeks are summer-ripened apples, eyes fever bright in the darkness. 

“Yes,” she breathes, “gods, _yes._ But… while I am no expert on such things, I know well enough we must establish boundaries. I would not… I do not know you, and while some of the pleasure lies in precisely that mystery… I do not wish for either of us to mistake what happens for love. Merely…”

“… scratching one another’s itches?” he offers.

She nods. “Precisely.” 

“Of course.” He says automatically. His own personal feelings aside, her mindset was completely rational. And concealing the breadth of his love for her would be a small task in the face of all else he must do. “Whatever occurs between us shall be as if it never happened, this I promise you.” 

She sighs. “Thank you. Now…”

“Now…?”

She stands, that godsdamned nightgown clinging to her every curve—the heavy swell of her breasts, the sway of her hip—and slips easily into his lap, snuggling into his arms. 

“Tell me—what sort of things did the Allagans get up to?” 

_Oh,_ he was only too happy to tell her. 

* * *

Negotiation, he calls it. Sifting between likes and dislikes, what was doable and what was unfeasible, dissecting where one another’s boundaries lay. The Exarch was no expert on all the intricacies you asked about; “My knowledge lies in theory,” he tells you with a wry smile, “I have never practiced such things.” But he knew enough to guide you in the directions you liked, and before long you were burning beneath your clothes, mouth dry, fingers digging into your thighs. 

“This would be easier,” he murmurs, coiling the jute rope between his hands—you had thrilled to see he had brought it with him—and taking a seat at the kitchenette, “if you undressed.”

The bondage you had agreed upon would be more complex than the previous, and you nod your assent. “Would you like to watch?” You ask, smiling wickedly.

He swallows hard, apple rolling beneath his throat. His knees shift apart, body leaning forward subconsciously. 

“Only if that is your desire,” he breathes. 

The robe falls from your shoulders in a pool on the floor, and you stare into his hooded features, hoping to catch his eyes, as you take the hem of your shift in both hands, lifting it overhead, the chill of night rushing across your skin. You watch as his mouth parts, lifting a hand unknowingly to his lips, biting down on his knuckles as you slide your smalls down your legs, stepping out of them and setting them to the side. 

_Stand tall,_ you tell yourself, drawing your shoulders back, taking a deep, steadying breath. _Shame does not suit a Warrior of Light._

The Exarch comes to his feet, and he seems _taller_ in a way, his shoulders broad and strong. 

Commanding.

Self-possessed. 

_Hell-bent._

“Come here,” he whispers, touching you lightly on the shoulders, spinning your back towards him. 

To be completely naked and exposed, and he clothed and disguised, binding your arms behind your back…

You squeeze your thighs together, your breathing ragged and hitching as he works.

He folds your arms behind your back, lashing forearm and wrist together, crystal and Spoken hands working in tandem. His fingers whisper against your chilly skin.

“If you’ve never done such things,” you find yourself asking, your voice far too loud in the quiet of the room, “how did you learn to tie rope?” 

Your voice hitches into a squeak as he draws the rope tight, securing your arms together. “The answer is far from titillating.” 

“I am content with honesty.” 

He runs the line around your front, beneath your breasts, and you shudder at the constriction. “I have never been content with idle hands. Many years ago, when construction first went underway in the Crystarium, I learned rope rigging—lifting heavy objects from one place to another, that sort of thing. The principles…” He drags the line over one shoulder, looping it through the rope beneath your breasts and over your shoulder once more, creating a V between your breasts, “… are transferable.” 

His warm breath ghosts over your sensitive skin as he presses a gentle kiss on your shoulderblade, driving the breath out of you in a ragged gasp. “But in the event my skills forsake me, I shall rely on you to tell me. How do you feel?”

“I’m very…” You swallow hard. “… I’m… _eager._ ” 

He chuckles into your hair, warm and throaty. “I meant physically, but I appreciate your candor.”

“Oh.” you blush. “I feel fine.” You rotate your shoulders experimentally, feeling the ropes adjust over your collarbones and sternum. “I don’t know if I want to stay like this _forever,_ but it’s comfortable enough.” 

“If ever you feel any discomfort: pinching, straining, burning, do not hesitate to let me know.” 

You nod, your breath catching once more as he wraps another line about you—just above your breasts. “I will.” 

He works a final series of knots on you, and then the blindfold slips over your eyes, and he patiently moves your hair out of the way to tie it securely. “You look so lovely,” he murmurs in your ear, “bound like this.” He moves you in his arms again, turning you towards him. 

His crystal hand drifts down the harness, to the rope between your breasts. He hooks two fingers beneath it, chilly against your feverish skin. 

“Kiss me,” you stammer, shivering. 

The grip grows hard. 

The Exarch tugs you forward in one smooth jerk. You fall into his arms with a gasp, your lips crashing into his as you struggle to find your footing, dazed and hungry. 

“My Warrior,” he whispers, “Before the night is over, I would kiss every last ilm of you.” 

* * *

Lakeland lavender on the midnight zephyr, the jute rope rubbing against your skin, the frenetic taste of his chuckle. Your mind enters depths you did not know you possessed, conscious only to the touch of his hands on your skin and the press of his warm lips against you. Title and pretense are stripped bare, and the primeval falls into its place.

There was one thing you were quickly learning about the Exarch’s appetites—

—he wanted nothing more, than to make pleasure itself a torment. No one had ever been so attentive to the intricacies of your body; he kissed you as if he had done it all his life, slid his hands down your bound body, nothing taken for granted, only savored, worshipped, _adored._

And, to your immense surprise…

… it seemed there was nothing that goaded his pleasure so much as working you with his mouth. 

“Though this may be secret,” he tells you—your face is pressed into the sheets, and he comes up to leave sloppy, open-mouth kisses on your shoulders, ”I cannot help but want to leave you something to remember.”

You wanted nothing more than to return the favor, to see bruises flower against his pale skin, but you are at _his_ mercy. 

As he works you down, he cannot resist nipping and biting your flesh, humming his satisfaction as you squirm against him. “There is something,” he breathes against you, “I have sorely wanted to try—something I think you will enjoy.” 

You nod, frantic, eager to please, eager to be _used._

You make a noise of disappointment when he leaves, listening for his movements, a habit you were quickly growing accustomed to while blindfolded. You hear the susurrus of fabric shed—as erotic as being bared before him was, you had been eager to feel _him_ against you, your skin prickling in anticipation. 

He hums your name when he comes back to the bed, a sweet, pleased noise, lifting you easily by the waist and onto your knees, tilting your chin up to claim your mouth, drawing you close.

Clinching you chest-to-chest, flush against his blissfully _bare_ skin. 

Much as you suspected, it is mottled between crystal and Spoken, the contrast between satin skin and slick, chilly crystal delightful, purring your contentment as your breasts flatten against the strong planes of his chest. Slight though he may be, a century of fighting had honed his body into lean, corded muscle.

It would be enough, to be held like this. Feeling the defiant staccato of his heartbeat against yours. 

Aimlessly you wonder what it would feel like, to fall asleep with your head pillowed on his chest. 

_Don’t be ridiculous,_ something furious uncoils within you. _This is not a matter of love._

His mouth—that lovely, _beautiful_ mouth—curves into a smile against yours, and you’re moving—he onto the bed, and you’re falling forward, steadied by his sturdy hands at your hips, guiding your thighs on either side of his stomach, abdominal muscles rolling as he adjusts.

“Come here,” he pleads. Soft. Plaintive. 

He’s pushing you forward, past his chest, your knees settling above his shoulders. 

“Oh,” you gasp, realizing what his game was far too late, “Oh, you— you can’t mean to— _Exarch_ —“ 

One of his hands fists the knots binding your arms, gripping it tight. Clever indeed; with the harness about your chest, he could hold you steady like this. Keeping you bound, but not forcing you to lean forward. 

And the other hand is at your hips, urging you forward—

—and _down_ onto him. 

It is nothing short of torture; straddling his face, hearing his satisfied purr as your hips roll forward, his mouth unspeakably warm against your flesh, lapping at you, breathing heavy against your thighs. The flat of his tongue parts of your folds, nuzzling into you, his small sounds of contentment rocking you to the core.

Your cries are frenetic and desperate, and if at first you hesitated to grind down onto his mouth, the further you lose yourself to depravity, the darker the waters you tread, the more your hips move of their own accord, chasing your own pleasure. His movements grow desperate, mouthing hungry, moans louder, as if he too was garnering just as much pleasure from this as you were. 

When you come, you are limp and pleading, held up only by his hand on the bonds, sagging against them as you ride out the waves against his mouth. He leaves gentle, featherlight kisses across your trembling thighs, purring his approval, stroking down your hip. 

“I’m sorry if I smothered you,” you find yourself blurting, still gasping for air. “I don’t reckon you can _breathe_ down there.” 

He slides your legs down to his hips, drawing you down to him, kissing you with torturous thoroughness. Your weight is pressed fully against his chest, unable to lift yourself up.

“Smothering between your thighs,” he murmurs against your lips, tasting of sin and indulgence, “would be an excellent death.” 

You did not think it was possible to blush further, but his words send scorching fire to your cheeks as you smile against his mouth.

Still trembling from your climax, the Exarch presses you facedown into the sheets. His hands are gentle even as he draws up your knees, hitching up your haunches, the thick head of his cock resting on you. He drags the tip up your aching slit, and you shudder with the anticipation. 

There is no friction when he slips inside, you were ready as ever for him, and you moan at the delicious, indolent _stretch_ of him, whimpering as he slides another ilm into you, and the fullness of it all, of _him…_

It’s more intense than the first time like this; when you think you can take no more, so completely full of him, there’s more of him still. “You’re doing so well,” he assures you, “taking me like this…” He slips out of you, your insides clenching reflexively around his absence, before slipping in again, and _oh_ there is a rightness in the movement, a craving deep in your belly for more, more, _more._

“Gods above, It feels so much… _more_ like this,” you gasp. 

You feel him hesitate. “Would you like to—?” 

“No!” and to emphasize the point you tilt your hips backward, taking him another ilm, driving a wild groan out of him, “I want you like this, just like this.” 

It’s a slow rhythm, at first; the heavy, languid slide of him in you, your helpless cries, his soft murmurs of affirmation, growing more and more unhinged every thrust. A memory comes to you in your haze; your last tryst together, him beckoning you over the edge as he worked you, and how wonderful, how _delicious_ that permission had felt. 

_“Let go,” he had commanded. “come undone for me, my dear, let yourself fall.”_

“Please,” you pant, “I want— I want you to—”

He halts in you, and you can feel his body trembling with the effort to remain still.

“What, exactly, do you want, Warrior?” he breathes.

“I want—“ Addled from what he’d wrought on you, the pure overwhelm that was _him,_ the words are difficult to grasp, clumsy and fumbling. “I-I want you to fuck me, to _let go_ , take me as you like, Exarch—“

The hand clenching your bonds releases; slides up your spine, between your shoulderblades, before fisting the silken mess of your hair. 

“If that is your wish,” he breathes.

The last shreds of his reservation sundered.

Your blood sings with the promise in it.

He thrusts into you to the hilt, and you see _red._

Ever since that first night, you’d yearned to see him unleashed. To see him shed that quiet exterior of tightly knit control. Yearned to drive him past the brink, yearned to be _the one_ who brought it out of him.

He fucks you with abandon, losing himself in the act, and a delicious flood of pure profanity you _never_ thought him capable of leaves his lips. “Haven’t stopped thinking about you since that night,” he grates, “you and that _mouth_ and your wet, tight _cunt—“_ punctuates his praise with a snap of his hips, driving a wild yelp out of you. “Never want you to leave,” he gasps, “want to keep you, tie you up— and make you _mine.”_

You clench around him at the mere _idea_ of it.

Of being possessed, of being _his._

There are stars behind your bound eyes, your body a trembling, jumping mess as you are unable to do nothing but weather his storm.

“I’m yours,” you plead, “I _want_ to be yours, want you—“

He hisses between his teeth, sounding almost pained, save for the tender way he caresses your cheek. You tilt your head up to his hand, panting against it. Whispers your name like a profaned curse, and he was the only apostate who still knew of it.

“You could be anywhere else,” he rumbles—his body is flush against you again, his crystal positively _frigid_ against your scorching body, “—could _be_ with anyone else—and yet, you’re here with me.”

The vulnerability in his voice cuts you to the quick.

“I don’t want to be anywhere else,” you confess, arching into him—his pace is quickening, the hand clenched around your tit growing bruising, worrying your swollen nipple— “I just want you, I want _this—“_

His pace falters, stutters, and he’s groaning your name, scattering kisses and bites across your shoulders, and you feel the white hot of his spend filling you, ricocheting your own climax.

You are gone—crying, pleading, chanting his title like a prayer—

Nothing save him and his quiet downpour.

* * *

By the grace of the gods, none of his knots tightened or loosened; his instincts had been correct in giving enough slack for movement. She is limp and pliant in the sheets as he works to unbind her, watching with bated breath as the ropes fall away, revealing the tell-tale brands across her skin, crosshatching across her myriad battle scars. He runs his hand over her silken skin, watching her stir and shiver at his touch. 

“How are you feeling?” he whispers, afraid to startle the silence. 

She hums. “ _Wonderful,_ I can barely…” she adorably stifles a yawn behind her hand, giggling to herself. “barely keep my eyes open, as evident.” 

“A moment, and we’ll get you to bed,” he promises. He quickly dons his robes again, feeling something bordering disappointment as he draws the cowl over his face once more. How he wished they could end their loveplay as two ordinary lovers would, instead of leaving her blindfolded until he could ensure his identity was hidden again. 

Once he finishes dressing, he takes a seat on the bed, drawing her over to him, settling her head in his lap, before pulling the blindfold off her features. She blinks blearily up at him, a dazed, pleased smile on her face, lips wonderfully swollen and kiss-stung. “Hello,” she breathes. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

He chuckles, taking her wrists and rubbing each in turn. “Indeed. Who could have done this to you?” 

“Mmm,” she purrs, treating him to a teasing, sweet smile that makes his heart skip a beat. “Whoever he was, he was _very_ good with his mouth, and had a cock the size of—“ 

She cuts off as he clears his throat surreptitiously, slipping a hand free and reaching up to stroke his face. “You embarrass so easily, old man.” 

“Only for you,” he mutters under his breath. “On your back, if you please.” 

“It doth please,” she hums lazily, rolling over to pillow her head on his thigh. He massages slow, soothing circles into her shoulders and forearms, knowing how they must have strained during their play. He feels her breathing slow, snuggling further into his lap with a gentle, contented purr. 

_Oh_ how he wanted to stay. Linger in her bed, pull her beneath the covers, fall asleep with her tucked safe and warm in his arms, watch the morning sun play over her peaceful, slackened face. He cards his fingers through her sweat-tangled hair, admiring the silk slipping between his fingers, before dragging down the curve of her back, staring at her scars with pained sweetness. 

There was no question of what he must do.

Slowly, carefully, he extracts her from his lap, holding his breath for fear of disturbing her. He draws the blankets over her sleeping form, pressing a hasty kiss to the top of her forehead before casting the glamour over himself once more, to slip out of her quarters with no one the wiser. 

_The sandwiches,_ he remembers as he steps out of the Pendants and into the quiet Musica Universalis. The moon is high in the sky, blazing bright and defiant in the bountiful wild dark. He’d have to ask her about it tomorrow—not that he wasn’t glad of the excuse to talk to her again. Hells, he could smell her on his robes, and he yearned to pause and inhale deep, remembering her hair splayed across her back, the sounds she made as—

“Well, well, well,” an insinuating voice drawls from the dark, “the Warrior’s mysterious midnight visitor.” 

He startles into stillness. “How can—?” 

“I’m quite skilled at sensing other’s aethers—the colors of their _souls,_ if you will,” he sneers. Clothed in dark robes fringed ostentatiously with fur and gilded accents, Emet-Selch steps from the dark, a perfect recreation of the print Urianger had shown him. “Truth be told I went looking for you, in that Tower of yours, and was sorely disappointed to find you missing. But where could the Crystal Exarch _be?_ I wondered to myself.”

Emet-Selch speaks with grandiose gestures, the smile on his face growing nastier with every word. “High and low I searched, til an idea occurred to me—perhaps he was having an evening tea with the Warrior of Darkness! And what a _sight_ did I find.”

His heart stops in his chest. “You didn’t—?”

The Ascian waves his gloved hand dismissively. “I only saw what I needed to. But how surprising still!” Emet-Selch’s golden eyes glimmer in the darkness, luminescent beetles. “I wonder, how would her friends react to such a thing occurring right under their noses? Better still, what would they make of knowing who you _really_ are?” 

The Exarch works his jaw, struggling to calm himself. “You appear to have me at the disadvantage, Emet-Selch.” 

“I see you’ve heard of me.” He grins. “Don’t worry that pretty head of yours. Your secrets—vile though they may be—are safe with me. It will be _far_ more interesting to watch how your little hero handles such a thing. Bedding the Crystal Exarch, unknowing of his identity? Torn between love and lust and duty? Such strife would surely break them to pieces.” His words are malice lined with velvet. 

“I’m certain you would like nothing else,” The Exarch snaps. “Have a good evening, _Ascian._ ” 

The stench of nightshade and tobacco linger in his nose as he stalks back to the Tower, his blood electric beneath his skin. 

Their affair hadn’t escaped the notice of Urianger or Emet-Selch. It should have been all the reason he needed to stay away from her, to push her as far away as one safely could—

—but he knew he had long lost the ability to say no to her or hurt her. 

In Allagan lore, there was a myth regarding one of the great emperors. They were presented with a knot far too complex to simply untie. The emperor had simply cut the knot, and went on to conquer the city. 

Theirs was a knot far too complex to simply untie, but he could not, he _would_ not be the knife to rend it asunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy starlight! i hope it was worth the wait!  
> brief announcement: i'm going to be returning to **weekly** updates on this fic. i underestimated how much work i was giving myself over winter break and i have some other projects i need to ensure get done on time. i apologize, but i hope you guys enjoyed the bi-weekly updates. once i get caught up on things i'll try to return to bi-weekly again. thank you for reading & the kind comments!!! i hope everyone has a safe & happy holiday. 🖤


	9. hellfire.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _She would tempt him here and now, and he knew not how he would answer._
>> 
>> _She grips the back of his chair with two strong hands, and gracefully, giggling sweetly under her breath…_
>> 
>> _…slips into his lap, straddling him easily._
>> 
>> _His darkest daydreams made manifest before a captive audience._
> 
> CW for minor violence. 

_“and let her taste the fires of hell  
_ _or else let her be mine and mine alone.”  
_ the hunchback of notre dame

* * *

It feels impossible to control your breathing. A cage claps around your lungs, constricting you, leaving every gasp an uphill battle. 

_Breathe,_ you tell yourself, hands trembling even as you unbuckle your armor, struggling to undo the straps with numb, trembling fingers. 

That _godsdamned_ letter. 

_“I apologize,” The Exarch had said, brandishing the wax-sealed letter between two fingers, “but if it isn’t too much trouble, I’d be much obliged if you and Alphinaud accompanied me to Kholusia, as per Vauthry’s personal request. I assure you it will not take long.”_

_“Excellent.” Alphinaud had grinned, feckless and sensing political advantage on the wind, ever his grandfather’s son. “There is a diplomat I would speak to, and the Warrior would prove to be most excellent at loosing his tongue.”_

And so you had gone to Eulmore, and you had _hoped_ no one would linger on you, an anonymous Honeybee, for too long…

… but it humored Vauthry to make the Exarch wait, and the Exarch elected to accompany Alphinaud to his diplomatic meeting, hoping his presence may provide some manner of motivation or advantage. If any accused him of meddling, he could merely claim to have an interest in possible trade. 

And that was when the Queen Bee set his sights on you. 

_“Oh, my prodigal Honeybee! Amuse me, will you?” He had called from a darkened corner, eyes glimmering with mischief._

_You glanced to the Exarch, who had merely shrugged, turning back to Alphinaud. You left, wiping your sweaty palms on your leggings._

_“You are in a unique position to do me a favor, O’ Warrior of Darkness,” he had grinned._

_“I’m not—“_

_“—I have my sources,” he said quickly, brushing your falsehoods aside. “Lord Vauthry finds it humorous to make the Lord Exarch wait. I say we make him regret that decision. You are a highly sought after prize for milord, and it would thoroughly anger him if you were to get a reaction out of the Exarch… by dance.”_

_He gestured to the center dancing stage, and your heart leapt into your throat._

_“I couldn’t… Why would you…?” You collected yourself, steeling your shoulders. “Why in the world would you bid me do such a thing?”_

_“One—if you don’t, I’ll tell the entire Beehive who you are, and then where will you be?” His tone was light and casual despite his veiled threats. “Two—there is no one Lord Vauthry despises more than the Exarch, and three—“ and his eyes darkened. “I have been swindled, cheated, disrespected, and made to watch my best dancers be murdered for the sake of mere amusement. To make Vauthry feel a tenth of the anger I feel for him would be an excellent reward.”_

_You swallowed hard._

_“Alright,” you told him, voice wavering. “I’ll do it.”_

And so you were sliding up the small, tight shorts the Honeybee dancers wore, cringing to yourself as you realized the rope’s marks were completely visible in your state of undress. You set about healing them, watching with regret as the brands faded away into nothingness from your skin. 

Then you move on to healing his lovemarks, lingering on one at the junction between neck and shoulder, the crescent of his teeth rendered in dark purple. It was a well-loved and well-worn location by the Exarch, the previous bruise from your lovemaking hardly healed before he branded you once more, biting nearly hard enough to break skin. 

Well…

Let them wonder, then.

Let the Exarch know you wore his claim on you, even if none save yourselves knew what it betokened.

You shiver as the gilded unicorn’s mask settles over your features once more, rendering you anonymous. No Warrior of Light, no Warrior of Darkness, merely a beautiful young woman. 

_As anonymous as he himself._

How would it feel for him to witness you so? To be as secret as he was, only your lips there to give lie to the truth? 

You plucked a golden tube of lipstick from the table, leaning into the mirror to smear carmine on your full, parted lips. 

Despite your occluded features, there is still a frenetic tension gripping your limbs, fear making a stranglehold about your heart. 

You summon the dregs of your courage, and step into the light. 

* * *

The Exarch admittedly worried for when she left their sight. He had feared she would be kidnapped, or assaulted, or taken to Vauthry, or any number of other dangerous things. _She bears Hydaelyn’s blessing,_ he reminded himself. _Regardless of what happens in the dark, you have no such claim on her to worry so._

In no universe did he predict what she would do. 

Alphinaud had passed him a drink when they sat down—some sort of boozy concoction, tasting of summer apples and dry red wine—looking as discomfited as he was to be in such a place. Both were scholars at heart, and neither at home in the crass pleasure rooms of Eulmore. Such an exercise in excess was jarring to them, and they shared terse grimaces over their drinks. 

The diplomat, while chatty and talkative, had little interest in discussing Eulmoran politics, much less anything to do with a Lightwarden—a term he squinted at with much distaste, waving his gloved fingers to dismiss such rumors handedly. 

The Exarch hadn’t given it much thought when the lights dimmed, all save one of the disparate stages lit. Nor when a new string of music picked up, dark and tenuous, so fully invested was he in _ignoring_ his surroundings, focusing only on the thread of conversation and the drink in his hand. 

His only indication of that which would be wrought was Alphinaud, who coughed and sputtered into his drink, mopping his mouth with his sleeve.

“ _Twelve forfend,_ I do believe that is—“

The Exarch cants his head, perplexed.

“—B-Behind you.”

Nothing could have prepared him for what she would do. 

Nothing in any of his wildest most intangible daydreams would he have even dared envisioned the Warrior in such little clothing, nothing more than a few scraps of diaphanous silk keeping her from immodesty, sleeking her hands up the steel pole, the unicorn’s mask rendering her an anonymous wraith. 

Would anyone see her myriad scars and question the graceful way she lifted herself up, arching with the lethality of a cobra? Would anyone but he see the wolf within, ready to rip and tear at a moments notice, contained merely by her whim?

He shouldn’t have worried what anyone thought of her, for she had already chosen her prey. 

It is bizarre, profane, _erotic_ in the purest sense that she too was masked. In their trysts he had been the one to hold all the power, always able to judge her emotions at a glance, from the furrow of her brow to the curl of her lip when she came undone…

And then, in one of her graceful, mesmerizing movements, her hair falls to the side in a gossamer shimmer, revealing the delicate column of her neck. 

Revealing _his_ mark.

Everyone who bore witness to her dance was seeing that mark. _His_ mark, which he’d bitten into her last night when she—when _he—_

The marks from the rope were gone—she had likely healed them. 

She had _chosen_ to leave his mark for display. 

His cheeks color furiously, back ramrod straight, knuckles whitening as he clenches his fist. 

He turns back to Alphinaud, who has turned almost precisely the same shade as the curtains behind him. The diplomat had completely abandoned any conversation—as most other tables have—making no disguise of his gawking. He crows to a fellow table, “Who the _devils_ is she?!” 

A cacophony of cheers and calls echo behind him—no doubt she had done something ridiculously charming in that casual, unmeditated way of hers. His mind works furiously to conjure a suitable image, hungry, so well acquainted with her body she may as well have been before him in his mind’s eye—

Alphinaud’s face turns white as a Sin Eater, alabaster and drained of blood, eyes widening in horror. 

“Is something—?”

He cranes his neck around towards the stage.

The Warrior of Light, masked and bedecked in jewels and swirling silks, cants her head at him. Her intoxicating aroma of freshly crushed lilac envelops him, the bells at her hips jingling softly as she shifts her weight onto one foot. 

Her smile is curved in a scarlet bow, knowing, damnable, _infernal._

_Oh,_ she knew what she was doing to him. 

“Lord Exarch,” she purrs, voice low and sweet, “I pray you are enjoying your evening in the Beehive and Eulmore’s offerings.” She casually rests her hand on his face, her touch warm and _far_ too tempting.

His grip on his drink tightens, the crystal screeching against the glass. 

“Such things are not to my tastes,” he says politely, struggling to keep his voice even, “but I appreciate your courtesy.” 

“Well,” she breathes, “we can’t have _that,_ can we?” 

Time, as it had never before, halts completely, brought to a standstill.

All he can see is the bright, refulgent blaze of _her,_ all his temptations laid bare in front of him.

In front of all of Eulmore. 

She would tempt him here and now, and he knew not how he would answer.

She grips the back of his chair with two strong hands, and gracefully, giggling sweetly under her breath… 

…slips into his lap, straddling him easily. 

His darkest daydreams made manifest before a captive audience. 

The drink shatters in his hand, clenching into a tight fist around the shards of glass. His ears flatten to his skull beneath his hood and it takes _everything_ in him to keep his tail still beneath his robes. A man far younger ignites beneath his skin; a century of fire in his bones wills him to _pounce._

He sees her mask tip upwards for a moment, as if looking beyond his shoulder and the pieces fall into place—

—he was being played.

The Queen Bee had put her up to this.

_Why_ she would do such a thing was another matter entirely. 

“There are many rumors of your appearance, my lord,” she murmurs, voice low and silken. She fingers the gilded edge of his hood. “but I have my own suspicions.”

“Do you?” he rasps, his voice rough and frayed. 

The Flood of Light could have happened before his eyes and he would have missed it entirely, so enraptured, so captured wholly by her, those lips, all that _skin…_

“Mmm.” She leans forward, her weight shifting in his lap. It was humiliating how _hard_ he was, guilt laced with thrilling terror a heady cocktail in his veins.

“Would you indulge me?” Her lips curve into a dangerous smile. “Just a peek, milord?” 

His mouth gapes open, struggling on words. A low whine leaves his throat, and her grin widens at his weakness.

By the gods, _why_ was it so impossible to resist her? He’d bedded her last night. He was not some starving man pining after her, eager to feast; by any reckoning he should be well sated, able to resist her charms, able to pull her off his lap.

But his hands come hard around her hips, digging in, a reminder of what they’d wrought together, and she shifts forward again, her apex grinding against his cock, and his eyes flutter shut, far, _far_ too close to coming just from this. Knowing that which they were, knowing they alone knew the extent of this, and the wool pooled over the entire room’s eyes… 

If ever he doubted the full extent of his depravity, of those depths without depths he would sink to at her behest, he is reminded of it now. There was nothing honorable or integral in his bones. The crystal may have spliced his body, but he is as much carnal flesh as she. 

With a small pleased sound, low in her throat, she moves to slant her lips over his, and by the gods he _cannot_ resist, wholly held captive by her, tilting his head up to meet hers, all sensible thought entirely driven from his mind, replaced by her scent, her hair fanning his face, the cool fingers cradling his cheek… 

It is by the grace of the Twelve alone that she pulls away at the very last moment, rewarding him with a throaty chuckle before sliding out his arms, bounding back to the stage with several long, graceful strides. 

The crowd roars their approval, and his cheeks color with white-hot shame. 

Now more than ever, he was certain they would destroy one another. 

* * *

His blood is fairly boiling when he leaves Lord Vauthry, the self-appointed mayor’s words ringing in his ears like a particularly infuriating pest. Entreating with him in person had been a risk, but his mind had been far too addled to conjure an accurate glamour of himself. Every single word of the man’s had been laced with greed and vile, and his words regarding the mysterious Honeybee…

… Recalling them would drive him past the brink of rage. He had concealed his true intentions well enough before Vauthry, but as ever, she would prove to be his undoing. He walks swiftly through the Canopy, scanning for Alphinaud or the Warrior, eager to see them on their way and to return to the safety of the Tower. While Vauthry did not know, he was being quickly drained of aether away from the Tower, so tightly entwined was he with the structure. He could hardly stand to be away from it. 

“Exarch.”

He halts immediately at her voice, soft and apologetic.

Her mask is still over her features, still the anonymous Honeybee. She seems smaller now in the hallway than when she had tormented him earlier, a careful hesitancy about her. She touches his arm gently, her warm fingers lingering on his skin…

… so much like their first night together, the cocktail of a long-delayed heat in his blood, at her mere touch something in him _snaps_ before he can stop it.

“A word, if you please,” he grates, grabbing her wrist in a vise grip and tugging her into the nearest alcove, a stonewashed pillar concealing them from the world. After, he would fret over how inappropriate it must have looked, to haul her off like that, but in the moment matters of dignity or appearance were a world away in his mind. He didn’t know what he wanted from her—an explanation, an apology—but his lips _burned_ with the need to be on her, wondering just how difficult it would be to extract her smalls and bury himself in her, heedless of anything at all around them. 

“I can explain—“

“Then _explain._ ” he growls. He backs her into the wall, still clutching on her wrist and pinning it beside her head, bracing himself with his free hand. He resists the temptation to wrench the mask off her head, see the way her eyes widened in fear, in _desire_ —

“The Queen Bee sought to anger Vauthry,” she speaks quickly, “and you are his most hated enemy. He threatened to tell Eulmore who I was if I didn’t. I thought it would be the simplest way through the situation, Exarch.” 

“Surely you needn’t have gone to such lengths,” he argues, his voice low and dark, leaning further down. Her breathing quickens, breast heaving, and something infernal ignites in his blood, to _hells_ with everything else— 

_—he could take her here, just like this, against this wall, masked and anonymous—would an invisibility enchantment hold over the both of them?_

“You broke your glass,” she stammers, her voice quiet, trembling. 

“I did.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t think…” 

“You didn’t think,” he whispers furiously, leaning down to her ear, lips brushing against her, feeling her _shudder_ against him, “that your attentions might have an _effect_ on me? Seeing my _bite_ on you, the entire room unaware save for us?” 

She makes a noise like a whimper low in her throat, reaching up with her free hand to grab his robes. There’s a moment where he’s sure she’s going to tug him down to her, and he _knew_ he could not resist her a second time.

“I apologize,” she breathes, “for discomfiting you so.” Her hand splays open, testing his grip. “Truthfully I did not think—” 

“That much is true, O’ Warrior,” he agrees, sardonic. Every ilm of him was frayed to shreds, frenetic and _hungry_. “You did not think.”

Her sanguine lips part, and it’s a motion he knows, knows all too well—ready for the kiss to come, waiting only for his movement, and once more they are caught—

—caught in one another.

Caught in magnetic polarity, neither one able to move, nor able to pull away. 

“Warri— _Exarch!_ ” Alphinaud’s squeak rips through the dull fury clouding his mind. He clamps down on his tongue, drawing blood. 

“My apologies,” he says smoothly, releasing her. She gasps, rubbing her sore wrist. _I hurt her—I hurt her again,_ his last shred of dignity rails against the confines of his mind. 

“There was a matter which required… discussion.”

_"That’s_ what you call discussion?” Alphinaud mutters under his breath, incredulous.

“We need to go before Vauthry decides to _actually_ try to kill us,” the Warrior pipes up, finding her voice once more.

“Too right,” Alphinaud agrees. “I’ll accompany the Exarch back to Kholusia—I trust you can make your way to Rak’tika, Warrior?”

“Allow me.” 

It is a dark purr, lilting and teasing. The Ascian Emet-Selch steps from the shadows, lupine and sulking. His golden eyes shine with scarce-concealed amusement, lingering over the Warrior. “She’ll not fall to harm with me. Ascian’s promise.” He folds his hand over his heart, giving the Exarch a mocking bow. 

“A fat lot that does,” Alphinaud snaps. “Warrior, I implore you, do not allow him the pleasure of your company.” 

The Exarch opens his mouth to agree, before the Warrior steps forward, lifting her chin arrogantly. 

“You called me Ascian-slayer when last we met, so I do not think I shall be in any danger of you,” she says sweetly, laced with vinegar. “I shall thank you for the kind offer and escort.” 

Emet-Selch barks a laugh, his teeth glinting dangerously in the light. “Do try _not_ to murder me before we reach your destination, hero.” 

She pats Alphinaud affectionately on the shoulder as a farewell, before staring at the Exarch.

He wonders what he’d see, were she unmasked. 

“Exarch.” She inclines her head, before following in Emet-Selch’s footsteps, catching up with his long strides easily. 

As he watches her leave, tilting her head up to listen to one of Emet-Selch’s quips, something vicious and coiling unfurls in the Exarch’s chest, an emotion he did not think he possessed til now.

It is only later that night, head in his hands at his desk, when he realizes what exactly it was.

Envy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, the infamous lapdance sequence. this comes from a prompt i filled for ffxivwrite called ["ache."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26243092/chapters/64539211) it was inspired by this incredible [art](https://twitter.com/ohhnyoo/status/1305264040453779457?s=20) which lives in my head rent-free to this day. it was so fun to revisit this!
> 
> i saw some comments about emet last week! i was wondering about how he'd be received, and i'm so glad it was positive! unfortunately this will _not_ end in trashfire (emet/exarch/wol), although i'm getting increasingly tempted to do an "alternate ending" with that outcome. for now, i hope you enjoy reading him just as much as i enjoy writing him. 🖤
> 
> i have a post coming out tomorrow for the bookclub's [winter exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/BookclubWinterExch2020) which goes live at 12 pm EST but all intents and purposes this is my last post of 2020! i don't think i've ever written or posted so much to AO3 in a year, much less in _six months._ thank you so much for reading what i have to say and i hope everyone has a lovely new years.


	10. myosotis.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _“Coeurl got your tongue?” Emet-Selch supplies._
>> 
>> _Thancred’s white coat glimmers in the horizon, flanked by Minfilia’s dress and the dark sweep of Urianger’s robes. Beyond your companions lies the dark marshes of Rak’tika and Yx Maja._
>> 
>> _“Boring conversation,” you lie._
>> 
>> _Emet-Selch’s smile widens, a predator ready to devour his prey._
> 
> No new CWs apply. 

_“it is only with the heart that one can see rightly;  
_ _what is essential is invisible to the eye.”  
_ || antoine de saint exupéry — le petit prince ||

* * *

If nothing else, Emet-Selch was an excellent conversationalist. 

Ascian meat-puppet or no, he had a way of making you feel as if he had nothing else he’d rather do than listen to you speak. Not that were you prone to speaking much anyway—but he always prompted you when he fell silent, or filled in the gaps with his own anecdotes, his smooth drawl a sonorous melody to accompany your walk to Rak’tika, the broken shells crunching beneath your boots.

“I have a curiosity—if you do not mind indulging me, hero,” Emet-Selch grins as you walk with him. The afternoon sun is high in its orbit. Sunlight filters in through the violet leaves, rendering the forest floor an alien world. 

“Depends,” you say cautiously, “on what such a request might be.” 

“I witnessed yon Lord Exarch leave your quarters last night. Far, _far_ too late to be of any puritanical reasons. Pray tell why?” 

You halt in your tracks, mind spiraling into a sheer panic. Troubling enough would be your friends finding out this affair, but your enemy, one of the most powerful of the Ascians, an Unsundered…

He barks a cruel laugh, ugly and unkind. “I thought as much.”

“I-I-It was—he was merely—“

Emet-Selch waves a pristine gloved hand, dismissing your stammering. “Enough. I will not spoil your secrets to your dear friends, thought it _would_ be amusing to watch you two squirm. He might be able to lie himself out of it, but you seem to be much less practiced at falsehoods, no?” 

You stay silent, walking forward with long, quick strides, grinding your teeth. He catches up easily, his hunched form beside you in a trice. 

“I never understood all this shame about such relationships,” Emet-Selch continues, heedless of your stony silence. “It is only natural, to quench one’s desires with another’s, and all the better if your appetites lead you in similar directions. Separating work from pleasure has never been a difficulty for we Ascians—although we do not consider such things as you feckless Sundered do.” 

“And how do Ascians consider carnal relationships?” 

“Much the same as all the other boring, banal things you Spoken get up to—as natural as eating, sleeping, breathing. Some of us have no interest in such matters, as it entirely pales in comparison to that which we once had.”

“And you?” 

“Shall I fall into cliché, and use the narrative of food to illustrate it?” Emet-Selch chuckles. “Sometimes, one would sup on that which is the finest, richest, most decadent that which can be provided. And other times, well, some swivel from an inn will do just fine. When I was Emperor,” and his features darken, his tongue sweeping over his bottom lip, “I bedded many, regardless of gender. To warm the bed of Solus zos Galvus was an honor indeed. I had an entire villa dedicated to my pleasure; a fully stocked flagellary, manacles, ropes, harnesses…” 

Your heart hammers in your throat, anxious and thready. Did he know that which you and the Exarch had discussed, had _done_ together? Or was it simply a fabrication, entirely constructed to worm under your skin? 

“How fascinating,” you drawl. 

“The Allagans were the ones who first discovered that—the razor’s edge between pleasure and pain, fear and desire, and they sought to hone that edge into nothingness, bleeding one into the other. In such a realm, all pretenses, all identities, all gods fall away. All that remains is the hand that wields the lash… and the willing, servile supplicant.” 

Something like ice runs down your spine, rendering you silent, your tongue a useless, dead thing in your mouth. 

Emet-Selch knew _precisely_ that which had happened between you and the Crystal Exarch. 

“Coeurl got your tongue?” Emet-Selch supplies. 

Thancred’s white coat glimmers in the horizon, flanked by Minfilia’s dress and the dark sweep of Urianger’s robes. Beyond your companions lies the dark marshes of Rak’tika and Yx Maja. 

“Boring conversation,” you lie. 

Emet-Selch’s smile widens, a predator ready to devour his prey.

* * *

The Hortorium was a curios of the Crystarium, brought about by the seemingly endless fauna and flora lodged deep in the recesses of the Crystal Tower. 

Some were from Garlond Ironworks’ work to preserve bits of Eorzea, rare flowers carefully collected, catalogued, and preserved for future generations before the blight of war could eradicate them from the star itself. Others originated in Allag, and their methods of preservation were far more complex. Some he was familiar with, samples painstakingly collected by Sharlayan historians using familiar motifs in architecture. Some still were wholly alien to him, and he merely shook his head when the rag-tag group of Crystarium horticulturists pulled them out from alien, crystalline greenhouses. 

Even in the first decade of what would become the Crystarium, there was a mutual calling to see things green and growing once more. The everlasting Light may have blighted the season’s cycles beyond any reckoning, but farmers, botanists, entomologists—refugees all—would find themselves executing small-scale experiments to see what conditions would allow wheat to harvest, then barley, and, most ambitiously, grapes. 

The gardens of the Crystarium were a living testament to the resilience of her people. For what was more beautiful; Eulmore’s profusion of exotic flora, always in bloom, bountiful and abundant, or the wild Azeyma rose which, by all reckoning, should not, _could_ not survive in the harsh climate, but blossomed in defiance of the odds? 

The answer was obvious to all who dwelled in the Crystarium, and as such there was a dedicated effort to see as much plantlife preserved and tended to as possible, even at the expense of sleep. 

And thus grew the Hortorium, a project wholly emblematic of the Crystarium’s innate spirit. If early detractors had dismissed it as frivolous, such ideas were dismissed with the first wheat harvest, and thoroughly put to bed when vineyards flourished in earnest. It took some trickery—planting in just the right spot, carefully constructed greenhouses to shade as necessary, minor alterations to the soil’s aether—but it could be done, and if the most unlikely of plants could survive, surely the Crystarium’s plankowners could too. 

And thus the Crystarium boasted abundant orchards and vineyards, so fastidiously taken care of that even Eulmore could not resist begging a trade route from them. When Vauthry overtook Eulmore, the trade routes dried up, but the shrewd traders in Mord Souq bought their wares and charged them at a steep upcharge to any Eulmoran delegates. While it certainly wasn’t moral, the Exarch could hardly begrudge the Mord for doing so. If Eulmore had gil to burn, well, why not empty their purses? 

During the first stages of the Crystarium’s construction, when they had first hit bedrock, one of the horticulturists—a Viis, who longed for the greenery of her home—suggested planting one of the mysterious trees in a sort of ceremony. It had barely gone up to his knee back then, the aether crystal embedded in its heart of hearts no bigger than a fist. 

But now it was the crown jewel of the Hortorium, her amethyst bows sweeping low, shading all those who would entreat with her shade, the eery glow of the aether crystal rendering her visitors ghastly and washed of color. He and the tree were two of a kind; ancient, misplaced, amalgamations of crystal and organic material. 

When Lyna was a kit, she would drag him down the long stairwell to the Hortorium every single day, wanting nothing more than to eat her lunch beneath the shade of the tree. 

As Captain of the Guard, her attention was highly sought after and she had little time for lunch, much less time to visit two dusty old relics.

He runs his hand over the smooth, winding roots; the knots were incomprehensibly conjoined, and he often lost himself in tracing their paths, puzzling out problems in the recesses of his mind as the hydroponics bubbled quietly behind him. 

His visit with Vauthry had gone poorly indeed, a veritable fiasco. By some small mercy, word of the mysterious Honeybee dancer hadn’t spread to the Crystarium; he had a sneaking suspicion they had dismissed the rumor as too outlandish to be true. When he closed his eyes, as if burned into his retinas, he saw her: masked, pushed against the stone wall, her wrist small and warm in his fist, pulse pounding like a rabbit caught in a snare. 

If there had ever been a clearer sign he _must_ desist from his course, here it was. Not only had he endangered himself, the Crystarium, Alphinaud in his brashness, but he would take her down in his reckless anger, nothing more than the same petulant boy who protested being left behind when they first took Syrcus Tower. 

There were matters, far greater matters—than his desires, _her_ desires, or his pride—at stake. 

They had both done what they did out of duty. The fault was squarely on him for allowing such matters to persist as they had.

He reaches up, catching a blossom—still tightly furled, a blood-red heart—between two crystal fingers, admiring it. 

Perhaps she would be able to witness the Crystarium’s tree blossom in the coming weeks; it was certainly a sight to behold, a treasure so valued it was common to press the petals into books, children weaving flower crowns out of the fallen blooms. 

But he would not live to see it. 

* * *

The fragrant warm air of peat moss bogs, primordial, subterranean, loamy; the _drip drop_ of condensation sliding down stalactites as Runar acts as an aspergillum, the strange sting of the dark-blessed water seeping deep into your bones; all these things permeated your very framework, a baptism of the frenetic energy of the Crystal Tower, a reprieve from civilization itself.

As you plunged the depths hidden within the Rak’tika Greatwoods, the Exarch’s presence was fading, but far be it from you to deem precisely _what_ it was replaced by. 

Y’shtola Rhul—Master Matoya, as you reminded yourself—was a different woman than you’d known. Gone was the white coat, the aetherometer always at easy reach on her shoulder. Master Matoya was the wilds incarnate, all her intelligence and aptitude unleashed in her feral smile and the disparate accoutrement of her gown, from the glossy feathers braided into her silver hair to the ley lines carved into her bootsoles. You had forgotten how those blighted eyes unsettled you; her blindness was not ugly or disconcerting, but you knew that Y’shtola saw to the heart of matters in a way no on else did, and you didn’t miss the way her smile never reached her eyes, nor the furtive, worried glances exchanged with Urianger. 

The Night’s Blessed are all kind, gracious souls, but Runar, with his golden eyes, patient smile, and shy manner dazzles above them all. It’s as obvious as the everlasting Light how his eyes follow Master Matoya wherever she goes, part protective, part admiration. 

She was the compass by which he’d fixed his life upon. 

You found yourself wondering if, beneath the cowl, the Exarch’s eyes followed you in such a way, and the mere wondering at such a thing _ached_ deep in your heart.

“We will just have to start without them,” Runar sighs. You start awake; the fire’s crackling had lulled you into a doze. “Would you call Master Matoya and the others?” 

You nod obediently, scrabbling to your feet and taking off towards Master Matoya’s quarters.

Y’shtola’s wry gaze had unsettled you, and her anger at a potential Sin Eater in their midst disconcerting, but you hadn’t pieced everything together—not yet. 

Nor had you had _true_ reason to suspect the Exarch.

There are things one wishes they could take back, conversations one would rather never overhear.

Such was one. 

“I tire of these games, Urianger.” Y’shtola’s voice; a hiss filled to the brim with righteous fury. “Why do you pretend you cannot _see it?!”_

You were no eavesdropper, but neither had you ever felt you _needed_ to; you let your shoulder rest against the wooden door, flattening your head against it, holding your breath for fear of missing a word.

“The blessing may spare her the fate of the becoming a Lightwarden…” Y’shtola continues, every syllable growing more and more furious and accusatory, “But you cannot be so blind to the nascent corruption! She is not as she was in the Source.”

_Her. She._

You clench your fists, breathing coming fast. What did she mean, becoming a Lightwarden? Corrupted? But—he had said—

He had _promised_ —

“Though I have no proof, I fear that the Light which poured forth from the Wardens was not negated at all.” 

The Exarch had been so certain—

“I fear it was _absorbed_ —that she has been suffused with their Light.”

_For the one possessed of Her blessing…_

—he’d had gods’ know how much time to discern the truth, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he and—?

“Though I have given thought to the possibility,” Urianger finally speaks, his voice thick with an emotion you cannot discern, “I dare not speak until more is known.” 

Y’shtola’s tone is harsh and dismissive. “By the time you deign to enlighten us, it may be too late—if it is not already.” You hear her footsteps, light and precise, on the stone floor. Restless pacing. 

“Urianger,” she finally says gently, “I know full well, after all these years, that you have only the best of intentions. But that does not make it any easier to put my faith in a man so infatuated with secrecy.” 

_A man so infatuated with secrecy_ —

You would use those same words to describe someone else. 

“I have had my suspicions ever since the Exarch bade you speak that day, but now I must ask.” Her voice takes on a foreboding tone, as if doling out judgement.

Were you the victim or defendant? 

“The Eighth Umbral Calamity and all that followed; everything you have claimed to have seen—did you?” 

What would you have done, if Urianger had broken his silence then and there?

The gods did not deign to give you such satisfaction, for in the same moment, far greater concerns rose—the Eulmorans had come to attack, and everyone would have to help defend the Night’s Blessed. 

But the damage had been done, the seeds of doubt sown, settling deep in your belly. A festering worry which would follow you the rest of your days in Norvrandt. 

Later that night, cuddled in a too-big hammock among the towering greatwoods of Yx’Maja, you stare at your hands, your hair. You run your fingers down your body, looking for any sign of the Light which threatened to burst forth from you. 

Someone—the Exarch, or Urianger—had lied.

At your expense. 

And _you_ were becoming corrupted. 

But where one seed was planted, a hundred others followed, all from the mouth of an Ascian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first, i hope everyone has a lovely and safe day, and i hope this chapter can provide any amount of escapism from everything happening. i wish it was spicier lmao but this is what i have.  
> secondly, tags have changed a little bit, mostly for clarity. the most significant thing is a **dubcon** warning in ch. 12. i know it's a couple weeks away, but i wanted to give anyone reading a heads up so it's not a surprise. the scenario will be talked about somewhat in ch. 13 as well, so if that is something which troubles you, please adjust according to your best interests. i will include specific cw warnings in the chapter summaries as usual.


	11. miserere occisio.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _You are tired, broken, weary, mistrustful. And yet, you yearn to soothe his pain._
>> 
>> _Meld the fractured edges of him back together._
>> 
>> _You pull back for a moment, taking a breath before tugging his lips down to yours._
> 
> CW for battle/associated gore/violence and suicidal ideation. 

_“poor old jim's white as a ghost  
_ _he's found the answer that we lost  
_ _we're all weeping now, weeping because  
_ _there ain't nothing we can do to protect you.”  
_ || o children — nick cave & the bad seeds ||

* * *

That night is the first in which you and the Exarch do not seek one another out. 

He didn’t speak to you upon your companions’ return, and you cannot help but wonder if his feelings towards you had cooled in the aftermath of your… _fiasco_ in Eulmore. For your part, you did not know what you would even begin to _say_ ; his people might have been able to abide his secrets and mystery, but such things did not come easily to you. You were direct and unwavering; what was the point in allowing thorns to fester untended? Better to dig them out before they became lethal, no matter the pain. 

But with the Exarch’s secrets—and your secrets caught up with _him_ —the unshakeable bedrock of your trust with the Scions, especially where Urianger was concerned, was fundamentally fractured. How far would Y’shtola go, to contain the threat that she perceived in you? How much did Urianger know—and how much had the Exarch omitted?

From the very first night, you had asked him—

_“And you? Will you cast me to the side if I prove an impotent sword?”_

His following words had been impassioned, noble, _sincere._ Far too caring to be between mere acquaintances. You made the mistake of allowing yourself to believe he meant what he said.

_“I will do no such thing.”_

If he had not cast you aside yet, you could not help but feel it was only a matter of time. 

You reeked of marshwater, dusty tombs, and tobacco; you were eager to be clean again. You availed yourself to the Pendants’ ample lavatories, relieved to find them empty for all save yourself. The baths are blessedly hot, the smooth stones lining them delightful beneath your bare feet. In Kugane, the hot springs were heated by geothermal springs, but you suspect these are warmed by clever aetherial manipulation. 

You scrub at your skin furiously with a coarse cloth and plenty of soap, hissing when a scrape on your shoulder starts to sting. 

As you crane your neck to look closer, something catches your eye. Easily missed and unobtrusive. 

Running beneath your hands, barely visible beneath the skin, were, unmistakably, veins of gold. Gilded worms crawling over your tendons, embedded into your flesh. 

You blink hard, then again when they’re still there. Scour your hand pink with the coarse washcloth, and startle when you see the same on your other hand. 

Dread slinks into your stomach, a coiled viper, poisonous and smug. 

It reminds you first of the gilding running all through the Exarch’s crystallized body, something you had grown to find comfort in. You had wondered, during your trysts, the extent of the crystallization and those golden veins, yearning to trace the eddies and rivers of gold with your fingers and mouth.

But you know what this is. 

The Light. 

Clamoring to escape.

_Festering_ within you. 

Rotting, ruinous, blanching you of your very identity. 

More disconcerting—a fact you wouldn’t see until later, combing out the wet tangle of your hair in front of the mirror—was one other thing.

A lock of hair at your temple, leached entirely of color. 

The dull white of alabaster tombs. 

You wrap it around your finger, ready to rip out the hank, thinking better on it when you realize how ridiculous it would look.

Does it look more ridiculous than sinking to your knees, nauseous, sickened, sobbing muffled between your fingers? 

You were hard-pressed to say.

* * *

The Crystarium was no stranger to Sin Eater attacks. Wholly the opposite; every facet of this city had been planned with the full intention of weathering brutal assaults, myriad plans in place rehearsed to rote perfection, all in preparation for the worst. Each attack, they grew more efficient, inconsistencies ferreted out and corrected. While the Exarch might have been the keystone in such matters, the rest of the Crystarium’s leaders were the driving gears, whipping her people into action as soon as the scent of battle was on the wind. 

Once the barrier was holding, the Exarch sometimes went out into the battlefield, but such things had become more dangerous for him over time, and he was more worn than he was wont to admit from his efforts in Eulmore. Regardless, the Scions were far more formidable than he, and would doubtless make quick work of the Sin Eaters. He would do what he could in the Crystarium, acting as a conduit of information, directing and delegating tasks to those best suited for them, parsing order from the chaos of combat. 

Regrettably, the Exarch had suffered through hundreds of such attacks. But never had he felt so distracted, unable to focus on each task at hand.

A ghost of himself in the machina, while his soul hovered on the fringe. 

The Warrior had suffered through more battles than he in a quarter of his lifespan—so why did he worry over her so? Why did he envision the glimmer in her eyes darkened, the sickening crunch of bone and squelch of flesh laid asunder? 

He did not worry after her for any sensical reasons, either—not for the sake of Norvrandt, the sake of the future, not for the hopes and dreams of Garlond Ironworks—

The Exarch worried after her for entirely selfish motivations.

Impudent and guilty. 

He should have done his best to mollify Vauthry, but there was a rage in him—a rage so familiar, as familiar as the stench of blood and woodsmoke—that came undone in the presence of such loathsome oligarchs such as Vauthry. He who would harm everyone—who would send the world into purest Light for the sake of the aesthetic. 

Such pontifications were soured on him, left an ancient, deep hollow in his bones. 

All this, fresh on the heels of her cursed dance.

And after his confrontation—no better than Vauthry, torn asunder by base desires and urges, a spoiled ruler on edge—he dragged her into a darkened corner, hissing condemnation and clutching her wrist like a lifeline.

Wounded come in waves from the battle. The first are the least injured—broken limbs, some inch-deep gashes. Healing potions and spells are applied stintingly, for fear of what was to come.

It gets worse, when the corrupted are brought in. 

If a man is truly dead, he will immediately turn into a Sin Eater, and it will be up to his unfortunate comrades to put him down. It is a psychological burden all who live in the First are doomed to suffer—can I kill this person, should the worst happen? Can I hold the sword steady, knock the arrow, and do what must be done?

There was a phrase Count Fortemps had written in his _Heavensward._ One that rattled the Exarch to the bones, called to the very aether of his soul. Spoken in harsh, bitter tones to the Great Wyrm of the Churning Mists by the Lord Commander.

_“If I must slay my dearest friend to defeat my direst foe, I will not flinch from my duty!”_

In a way that became increasingly casual, the Exarch had considered what it would be like, to kill each and everyone he had ever met. Some were easier to swallow, but some—

—some the Exarch still did not know the answer. 

His answer for the Oracle of Light varied, depending on the woman. The girl. Some were easier to fell than others. A strange balance between compassion and detachment. 

He knew his hands would shake, should this Minfilia be turned.

Could he put Lyna to the sword? Cut her down the same way he cut down her parents, stumbling over their desiccating corpses as he ran to uncover her from the rubble, blood staining her silver hair scarlet? 

And the answer that haunted him the most—the one he wavered the most on, turning over the possibilities in his mind—

Could he kill the Warrior of Darkness, should she turn into the greatest of Lightwardens? 

He stares up into the storm clouds unfolding over Lakeland, the icy sheets of rain drenching the battlefield, rendering soldier and Sin Eater alike indistinguishable from one another. 

He and Urianger had discussed the possibility. Killing one another would be a simple, seamless matter. Anything to ensure the end goal. Their lives became a secondary commodity in the face of such turmoil. 

When the Exarch realized he could not kill the Warrior of Darkness with certainty, he decided instead to take his own life.

Suicide was a much simpler matter, after all.

* * *

You were unprepared to find the Exarch alone in the Ocular. 

If he did not wear the gore of battle on his clothing as you did, it was evident in every line of his features, the grisly frown of his full lips, the exhausted sag of his shoulders. A wild splatter of dried blood streaks across the white of his robes, and he leans heavily on his staff, looking older than you’d ever seen him. Though his eyes may be hooded, you had no doubt you would see a haggard, broken look in them. 

Your hands burn to soothe, to comfort, to _care_ for him, exhausted though you were.

_Furious_ even still with him.

“Welcome, my friend.” His voice is soft and sincere, warm tea on a frigid night. “Tales of your heroism on the battlefield precede you—though I confess I found them more gladdening than surprising. I hear no few of our people have you to thank for plucking them from the jaws of death.” A wry smile slips through, settling your nerves a fraction. 

He crosses his arms over his chest, bowing his head. “Would that they had not needed saving to begin with. But the responsibility for _that_ lies with me.” His voice darkens, the same tenuous sorrow you had grown to associate inexplicably with the Exarch bleeding through.

Did he blame himself for Vauthry’s actions? For every life lost? 

You know all too well what it meant to bear such pain. To witness those you held dear lose their lives all for the sake of the cause, the sake of the Warrior of Light—the sake of _you._ It was a burden you would not have anyone suffer.

“Exarch,” you murmur, stepping forward. You had prepared to treat him cruelly, demand answers for your condition. 

But the battle had drained you of any venom, left you impotent and frail.

You wanted nothing more than to pull him into a warm bed, tangle in his arms, and fall into the depthless oblivion of sleep. 

You rest a hand on his shoulder, tentative. “One of the soldiers in Spagyrics—he said he thought you were doing the right thing. _We_ were doing the right thing.”

“… One of our soldiers said that?” He murmurs, taken aback. You nod, hoping he can see the sincerity in your eyes. “… Thank you.” 

“Of course—“ 

The world tilts, your vision spins; the dregs of adrenaline run dry, the emotional toll of battle sweeping through you all at once. You pitch forward, vision going black, body limp and numb. 

Time retreats into a blur; the panicked, worried tenor of his voice, strong arms wrapping around you, pulling you tight.

You find yourself leaned up against the cold crystal walls of the Ocular, taking slow breaths as the Exarch kneels in front of you, stroking your cheek with his crystal hand. It feels blessedly cool, and you twist your head to nuzzle into it. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, “I don’t know…”

“I have asked too much of you,” he says softly, sounding furious with himself, “and I fear I will ask much and more. Pray take a reprieve, until the others come. And rest assured that I fully intend to continue our work. I will not shrink from what must be done.”

There was something more—that thorn in him to be pried out. How long had it been, since he’d allowed himself to be honest with someone? To _feel_ something? 

_“The Crystal Exarch is suffering from a guilt the likes of which I have never seen—murderers have felt less over their sins.”_

“Exarch,” you whisper, standing and reaching out to fist his robes.

You are greedy, wanting only his presence, wanting only to soothe the ache that ravaged him in the strange hope that somehow you might also heal your own broken, bruised heart in the process. It neigh infuriated you—you could hardly trust the man, yet here you were, yearning for his touch like a holy balm.

He hesitates, at first. Flinching away from your touch, frowning in concern. You wrap your arms around him, his solid, warm body, pressing it against yours, leaning back against the wall.

Hugging him to you as tight as you could. 

“It is alright,” you inhale deep the warm scent of his robes; gunpowder and blood, mixed with the aroma of sweat, “to feel the pain, to feel grief.” 

“Though I mourn the loss,” he strokes your hair, your head tucked comfortably beneath his chin, “I will not lose myself to grief.” His voice quiets, as if speaking to himself, only discernible from the rumble of his voice deep in his chest. “And even should regret be my constant companion, I will follow the path I have chosen to its end.” 

His voice breaks at the last syllable; what precisely did that end mean for him? For you?

Perhaps someone more sensible would have lingered on his words. Perhaps Y’shtola or Ardbert would have pressed further, sought answers instead of acting on instinct. 

But you are nothing but yourself.

You are tired, broken, weary, mistrustful. And yet, you yearn to soothe his pain. 

Meld the fractured edges of him back together. 

You pull back for a moment, taking a breath before tugging his lips down to yours. 

You had never kissed him like this. With no promise of scorching lust on the horizon, only two lonely souls seeking to comfort one another in the midst of war. 

There is no heat, no inferno to contend with. Only the soft sound of his breathing, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your splayed hand. 

He pulls away to press a warm kiss to your forehead, his Spoken hand moving upwards to cup your chin.

“We have some time before the others arrive… if you’d like to talk?” you ask softly, barely above a whisper. 

What you would speak of, you could not say. Perhaps parse the strange bleeding between strangers and lovers that had occurred between you two, or Emet-Selch’s insinuations, or perhaps the gold veins growing ever more prominent beneath your skin, or perhaps even the strange lock of silver hair you now bore. 

But most of all, you wanted him to tell you. Tell you of _himself._

For once.

And you would be lying to yourself if you did not have several _pointed_ questions for him to reckon with.

“And if I were to confess any doubts I might harbor, no one need ever know?” he rasps, stroking your chin affectionately, before closing the gap once more, featherlight and sweet. You lock your arms around his shoulders, losing yourself in him, bittersweet tears on the edges of your eyes. 

_Your secrets,_ you think to yourself, _are always safe with me._

And then, he pulls away, as if dragging himself back to reality. “No, I believe you have enough burdens without my adding to them. Nevertheless…” He cups your face in both hands, rubbing your cheeks with slow, soothing swipes of his thumbs. “Thank you.” 

What you wouldn’t give, to crawl inside his mind, to know what he was going through. _Give me your burdens,_ you wanted to scream. _Let me help._

But before you can attempt to ascertain the nature of his anguish, the doors to the Ocular swing open.

“Ah, Exarch— _by Thal’s balls,”_ Thancred Waters swears, sternly grabbing Minfilia’s shoulder and swiveling her away from the scene. She makes a small indignant noise of protest. 

“I passed out,” you explain quickly, cheeks hot with embarrassment. “He had to—um—help me to my feet.” The Exarch releases you, eager to put at least a fulm between the two of you, and you sway on the spot, whether from exhaustion or the loss of his presence, you knew not.

“Well, heavens help the Crystarium if _that’s_ how you treat all your convalescents, Exarch,” Thancred mutters under his breath.

You can’t decide if you’d rather laugh with him or knock him out. 

Plans move swiftly, like a stormfront sweeping across desert plains. Perhaps they are expedited by Emet-Selch’s haughty presence, or the surly tone in the Exarch’s voice. But Minifilia pleads to go to Amh Araeng, to consult with the Oracle. To become what she must. 

It was a feeling you knew all too well, and you could not bring yourself to question her desires. 

You feel more prepared than ever to immediately make way for Amh Araeng—exhaustion be damned, you could feel the urgency of the task at hand, the beckoning of the divine within Minfilia—but it is Thancred, much to your surprise, who puts a halt to it. 

“You are dead on your feet,” he tells you in a low tone that brooks no argument—a tone much like he used with the Oracle. “We’ll leave first thing on the dawn, but you _must_ rest.”

“As loathe as I am to agree,” Alisaie frowns, “Thancred speaks truly. Exarch, do you think we can afford such time?” 

The Exarch nods. “Of course. Avail yourself to whatever amenities the Crystarium has. You have more than earned your rest.” 

The rest of the Scions shuffle out, Y’shtola scarcely concealing a wide yawn from behind her hand. You linger for a moment longer, staring down the Exarch. He stands implacably before the scrying glass, crystal hand wrapped around his gilded staff. His head cants forward, offering you to speak.

_Let me stay,_ you wanted to plead. _Let me stay with you._

It evaded sense, the implicit _need_ to speak with him. Sense told you to wring the answers out of him, but your heart keened for something different.

And still yet, trepidation is a tight vise on your tongue. 

But perhaps he reads your plight on your face, for something in his expression darkens, shifts. 

The Exarch slowly, precisely, lifts a finger to his lips.

The message could not have been more clear. 

_Later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the only worst-kept secret in the crystarium other than exarch's identity is wol-chan & him having an affair aksfjdkas


	12. a cruel angle.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings: dubious consent on both sides, consensual non-consent under bad pretenses, bad BDSM etiquette/emotional manipulation, rough/violent sex, hatefucking, edgeplay/fear, abuse of magic, “knife”play but there’s no knife or harm, as well as the typical bondage/blindfolds. This chapter is... a lot. Don’t try this at home, kids.** If you need to skip this chapter, absolutely no worries, please curate your own experience. There will be some vague discussion about this in ch. 13.
>
>> _“Listen close,” he tells you, cupping your face in his crystal hand, leaving you shivering like a caught rabbit in his grip. “If this is to continue, it will be on my terms. I will do all that you ask, and more. But if you ask me to stop, if it becomes too much—this arrangement will end, and we will never speak of this again.”_
>> 
>> _He leans closer, speaking slowly, as if struggling to keep his voice even. “Those are my conditions—the only such conditions I will agree to.”_

_“when love cast me out,  
_ _it was cruelty who took pity on me.”  
_ || jacqueline carey ||

* * *

The Exarch glances up from his work to the timepiece on his desk. A quarter after midnight. The Crystarium’s residents were either sleeping or drowning their sorrows in the Catenaries, and for the Exarch, the night had barely begun. Truthfully he hadn’t slept since the Warrior arrived in the First—far too much to do, and he would be damned before he missed so much as a second of her time.

He wondered if she would call upon him—or did she expect him to call upon her? Fraught with indecision, he drops the quill onto the desk and considers the writing before him.

It was a matter which had consumed the dark midnight hours of the last moon—incredibly detailed instructions on the minutia of the Crystarium, every last trace of information he could think to give in his absence. It was, as much as anything he would ever write, his last will and testament. His writing on the hundred or so pages went from meticulous and orderly to a disastrous scrawl, desperate to extract every last onze of information from himself. 

He hunches over the desk once more, another fragment of knowledge garnered—a well on the outskirts of Lakeland. It hadn’t been used in almost seventy years, but there was a trick to the crank which might prove indispensable should the worst happen.

A sound breaks through the quiet of night.

The creak of the Dossal Gate opening, then closing. 

His ears flick upwards, alert. 

Soft, tentative footsteps on the marbled floors. 

This was no robber—and there were only three people the Crystarium Guard would permit at such an hour.

And only one he could have possibly expected. 

A tentative knock at the door of his quarters. 

He shoves the papers under a stack of letters and throws his hood back over his features. “Enter,” he calls, struggling to render his voice calm and even.

Beneath the hood, he was frenetic, damnably _excited_ to see her.

_You must end this,_ the last vestige of his sense tells him. _There is no other course—you are undoing one another, and will drag all around you down in your lust._

The voice falls silent when he lays eyes on her.

Anyone else in the Crystarium might have worn such an outfit and the Exarch wouldn’t have glanced twice. But on _her…_

A thin blouse, wrapped around her curves in a low-cut V, baring her collarbones and perfect décolletage. Simple breeches, tall laced-up boots. He had never seen her so dressed so _casually_. He’d seen her prepared for battle, in that dizzying dancer’s array, and stark nude under the moonlight… 

How could he possibly deny her anything? 

“My friend,” he greets warmly. “I trust you rested well?”

She nods, lingering in the doorway. “I did. I hope I’m not interrupting. Are you preoccupied?” 

“A little, but I suppose I can find time in my schedule,” he says with a sheepish grin.

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. The Warrior moves to the chair across from his desk and elegantly folds herself into it. She crosses one leg over the other, hands settling on one knee. “We heard… interesting news, in Rak’tika,” she says haltingly, “from Emet-Selch.” 

“And what did the Ascian have to say?”

“That Hydaelyn is no better than Zodiark—that they are both ancient Primals,” she sighs, crossing her arms. “It would be so easy, to dismiss it as lies and deceit, but I cannot help but wonder if there is an onze of truth to it all.”

“Am I correct that you fear if Hydaelyn is indeed a primal, and you and yours are merely tempered by her? No different than the Ascians?”

She nods, glancing away from him. “Aye.” 

The Exarch frowns, knitting his hands together on the desk, aquamarine gemstone criss-crossed with pale skin. “Based merely on appearances, it does not seem so. You are no thrall of Hydaelyn’s, and it does not seem that she would even desire such a thing of her champion. It is a matter worth further explanation and research—after the Lightwardens are slain, of course.”

Her eyes dart up to his hood, flashing.

Angry. Mistrustful. Nothing could ever be simple between them.

It seemed there was something more to her visit after all. 

“I would,” the Exarch says softly, hoping to diffuse her, “prefer to clarify the… _quandary_ we find ourselves in.” 

“What quandary?” The Warrior’s tone is dismissive. 

“I… I do not think I can allow this to continue, in good conscience. The incident in Eulmore… that had _lasting_ repercussions. True, Vauthry’s attack was only a matter of time, but I cannot pretend that such things weren’t accelerated by that which came to pass. Perhaps, when all of this is over, we can revisit such a subject—“ 

Her boot falls to the floor in a loud thud, startling him. 

“I don’t want to talk about this,” she seethes. 

Guilt keeps him steady on his course.

“Whether you desire to confront such things or not, we _must_ quit such an affair, it will only end in—“

“I said,” she rises to her feet, expression dark and unreadable, coming to stand before him, her hand rising over his chest, “I do not wish to talk. _At all.”_

In one smooth motion, she kneels down, tugs the front of his robes forward, and crashes her lips against his. 

She kisses like it’s a war. On the offensive, aggressive, bloodthirsty, playing dirty. Slides into his lap before he can begin to stop her, a grotesque echo of her dance. Shoves her tongue in his mouth, leaving him no quarter, nowhere to run. 

“This can’t—“ he gasps into her lips. She’s swallowing his protests, refusing to hear him out, a wild growl leaving her throat. His hands move of his own accord, retreading familiar territory, settling on the swell of her hips, all rational thought drifting further and further from his mind. She captures his bottom lip between her teeth, bites down hard enough to draw blood. 

The pain of it shocks him back to reality; he wrenches his head away from hers, panting, struggling to ebb the tide of bloodlust in him. “This cannot happen,” he tells her, cheeks burning. 

She rocks her hips forward. It is _humiliating_ how hard he is for this. “Make me.” 

“I—“ he hisses as she drags her nails down his chest, remembering what they could do, wanting her to go _further,_ wanting—

“I—Warrior, we _must_ discuss this, we—“

“That night, after Holminster Switch,” she snarls, capturing his chin in her hand, wrenching his head up to hers. Her eyes are wild, fever bright, her hair brushing his cheek. “You told me you wanted nothing more than to serve me, in any way I desired.” 

“I did,” he whispers, defeated, breathing coming hard and fast.

“ _This_ is what I want. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be loved. I want you to _fuck_ me, Exarch.” 

His temper had a long wick, but she had cut it to the quick in her anger, her fire kindling an inferno in him, consuming all in its path—consuming _him_ entirely. To have his words, his _vulnerability_ turned into a weapon against him, to watch her dismiss all semblance of civility—

“You meet me after dark,” he growls, “assault me, twist my words against me, all in some attempt to—to what? Drive a reaction out of me? Warrior, _what is your game?”_

“Shut up,” she mutters, her hand sliding down to his throat, encircling it, squeezing just hard enough to constrict his breathing. “Just shut up and—“ 

His civility, his honor, his sense of duty, are all cast aside. Gone was the calm serenity of the Exarch, the line separating him from Vauthry, from Emet-Selch. 

He never thought himself capable of hurting her, much less _desiring_ to do so. 

Depths without depths.

Depravities yet to be unveiled. 

He’s standing. Her feet hit the floor, and he’s tangling one hand in her hair as the other digs into her shoulder. He drives her forward, her stomach hitting the edge of the desk. She cries out when he slams her head into the desk, the sound of her body colliding onto the wood _sickening._

The inkwell shatters upon the floor, a stack of books following soon after. 

“If that is truly what you desire of me,” he forces out, deadly calm, “then I am happy to oblige you, o’ Warrior of Darkness." 

* * *

You didn’t expect him to take your bait. It seemed too obvious, too childish, and he too patient and kind to tolerate such trivial games. But perhaps you’d struck a nerve in the man, because before you could protest, the palm of his hand—the crystal one, unyielding and cold—is smashing your face into the desk, the other yanking down your leggings. You feel him hesitate when he pulls them down, running his hand down your bare flank. You’d forgone your smalls when dressing for this evening, and evidently it did not escape his notice. 

“You planned this from the start,” he accuses bitterly.

_Oh,_ he was splendid in his anger, and you had never been so eager.

“I—“

He’d taken you at your word— _no talking._ He hooks two fingers into your mouth, muffling you. You suck on them, moaning around them when you feel the hard, scorching tip of him nudge you. 

“I can’t believe,” he hisses, “how _wet_ you are for this.” 

Slick though you were, he still drives a scream from you when he thrusts into you; you claw at the desk, tears at the edges of your eyes with the pain of it. But _gods_ how you wanted this, wanted to be torn apart by him, used and abused— 

Your name is a profane, dark sound on his lips when he hilts himself in you, and you arch off the desk, the unbearable fullness the only thing you could possibly feel. His pace is harsh, brutal. Quick snaps of his hips, punctuated by his hand finding your breast, pinching hard at your pert nipple till you cry out in protest. Then he’s wrapping his fist with your hair, dragging you up, forcing you to support yourself with your arms. He leans over you, never letting up his ragged pace. 

“What would your friends say,” he whispers, breath hot and sinful in your ear, “if they saw their hero, _begging_ to be fucked on my desk? By a man she hardly knows? What if I told them, of all the ways you let me do whatever I like with you?” 

“Exarch—“ you stammer, heart racing, fear and desire a heady cocktail in your blood. Had you truly pushed him so far? His anger is so at odds with how he’d always treated you, worship and fury bleeding into a single immutable thread. 

He pulls your hair tighter, scalp stinging, his thrusts growing frenetic, desperate. You could tell he was close; but something like frustration grows in him, as if he can’t find his own pleasure in this. The Exarch shoves aside your blouse to bite into your shoulder, hard enough to draw blood. The gold detailing of his hood digs into your skin, a dull reminder of all his dishonesty.

You can do aught but endure his torment, feeling your own orgasm coiling deep in your belly with each broken yelp that leaves your lips. You wanted him to come, to just _finish_ this, let you lick your wounds back in your room. A wash of red overcomes your sight; you are losing yourself in this, losing yourself in his anger, his hate—

The call of your name brings you back down to reality. 

He grabs the back of your blouse, ripping it as he pulls you up. Your leggings catch about your knees; you stumble onto the floor, teeth clattering as your knees hit the marble. The Exarch kneels down to your level, and though his eyes were hidden by shadow there is a ferocity, an anger there you had never before seen. 

Never knew you _wanted_ to see.

“Listen close,” he tells you, cupping your face in his crystal hand, leaving you shivering like a caught rabbit in his grip. “If this is to continue, it will be on _my_ terms. I will do all that you ask, and more. But if you ask me to stop, if it becomes too much—this arrangement will end, and we will _never_ speak of this again.”

He leans closer, speaking slowly, as if struggling to keep his voice even. “Those are my conditions—the _only_ such conditions I will agree to.” 

What would he do, if given full lease over your body, your mind? Your consent and pleasure had always been at the forefront of his mind in all else you had done together. You had sought to provoke him, but this—

You cannot help but contemplate the possibilities.

And Emet-Selch’s velvet whisperings linger in your ear. 

_“The Allagans were the ones who first discovered that—the razor’s edge between pleasure and pain, fear and desire, and they sought to hone that edge into nothingness, bleeding one into the other. In such a realm, all pretenses, all identities, all gods fall away, only the hand that wields the lash… and the willing, servile supplicant.”_

Dressed in the finery of Allag, his role was determined. And if you hadn’t thought him capable of sadism before, you were wondering if you had measured him wrongly.

On your knees, debauched and shuddering, you were slowly coming to understand your own role in this. 

His deal was simple. You would lose your dignity, or you would lose his companionship. 

The Exarch played a rigged game against you, and by the grit of his teeth, he didn’t expect you to take his bait.

“What is your answer?” he persists, shaking your chin with a rough jerk. _Gods_ he sounded desperate, a broken edge of lovely anguish in his tenor.

Your decision is made for you, even knowing what you did.

It is foolishness.

Foolish as courting death with a viceroy, foolish as seducing the leader of a foreign city, foolish as trusting an Ascian.

“I agree,” your own voice sounds defeated in your ears, “to your terms, Lord Exarch.” 

His mouth parts in surprise, before settling into a thin, determined line, his expression unreadable. 

“How I wish you’d have said anything else,” he whispers, his voice small and quiet. 

* * *

Historians said the Allagan emperors were, with few exceptions, varying shades of mad. There was something about the heady combination of power, conquest, and pure genetic malfeasance which rendered them easily fallible. Hence Emperor Xande’s infamous tyranny and Amon’s misguided, zealous attempts to resuscitate his beloved emperor long after his death.

To the young Archon Raha, they had only ever lived in his history books, strange facets to be poured over and examined. He was far more interested in the common people’s reactions to such anger, the rebellions, the proletariat, never fantasizing himself in such a position. 

But now—he finds he can understand Xande’s incomprehensible rage, if even an iota of it.

Fury at himself, at her, at her refusal to acquiesce. He hadn’t thought she would accept his twisted game, much less submit willingly to such a thing. It was blatant manipulation, a poor attempt at playing the villain in the hopes the hero would retreat. 

But that wasn’t what she was—why would he ever expect her to flee?

As such, it was as much a trial for him as it was for her. 

His own pleasure is entirely forsaken. Aroused though he was, something in him refused to give way, and no matter the ways he defiled her, climax could not have been further, his testes throbbing with the need to release. The frustration spurred him on. He hilts himself deeper in her, tightening his grip on her throat, drawing her hair tighter and tighter around his clenched fist. 

_Stop me,_ he pleaded with her. He felt remote, distant from himself. A ghost locked in labyrinthine halls. _You alone can stop this._

But who truly was in control? He who punished her body, or she who endured, refusing to surrender?

It was a contract doomed to fail.

He should not have allowed such a situation to even occur—but here he was, the architect of such cruelties. Two individuals predispositioned to extreme stubbornness pitted against one another. 

Raha had always been good with games. Clever enough to render loopholes out of nothingness, flouting the rules entirely when it suited him. It was easier to dedicate himself to particularly boring tasks if he created little challenges for himself. It was an ability he did not think would come into play here, in his darkest of moments, but he was grasping for any tool available, and clutched the one most ready. 

He uncovers bruises and ruddy marks across her body when he finally strips her bare. She is blindfolded and trembling, sniffling hard. Tears soak through her blindfold as he slips her boots off, one at a time. 

He clenches and unclenches his fists, knowing that which he would do, and fearing it.

_Despising_ it.

He spins her in place five times, keeping his arms tight on her shoulders. Fear was the goal, and disorientation would render it that much more achievable. Then he halts her in place, guides her against a wall.

In a harebrained abuse of magick he creates an anchor point above her, and lashes her bonds to it.

Too high to comfortably stand, she would be forced to constantly remain at her full height, and if she sagged, her arms would doubtless quickly ache.

By the gods, he had to end this, and quickly.

He steps back from her, taking slow, steadying breaths, a feeble attempt at quelling the panic in his chest. Letting her acclimatize, watching her shudder, testing the bonds.

Were he in any less of a darker mood, he would have been breathless with the sight of her. His bites littering the expanse of her body; hard, hand-shaped bruises where he’d grabbed her. Her body stretches upwards, rendering her limbs taut and sinewy, uplifting her breasts, and leaving her hips a sensual curve worthy of damnation.

She has never been so vulnerable. 

She has never been more _his_ than in this moment.

It was a matter he had fantasized about, time and time again, and yet to have it feels empty. As if he cheated.

He moves to his desk drawer, picking up a letter opener, and lets the blade skim over the desk. The sound rings in the air, and he watches her jump at it.

Silently, he sets the letter opener back down.

There was a trick taught to beginner sorcerers—manipulating aether, for different sensations. Typically warm and cold, perhaps scratchy or smooth. They were exercises he was well acquainted with.

He had no wish to hurt her, or even risk such a thing, and as such he would not use even the dullest of blades on her. 

But aether could feel just as solid and sharp as knife, all without breaking the skin.

Running a blade across the expanse of her skin, watching her shudder and tremble and _beg…_

How far would she let this go?

Surely— _surely_ she would refuse.

He steps back to her, running a hand down her body—down the taut line of her arm, to the uplifted weight of her breast. She whimpers with need, leaning towards his touch.

With his other hand, gemstone facets glinting, he slowly lifts a finger and sets it between her breasts.

The Warrior cries out, flattening herself into the wall instinctively.

“Is that—?! You can’t be serious, you can’t mean to—“

“What do you feel?” He prompts.

“A-a knife,” she stammers.

“Then,” he says softly, “it is a knife. And I promise no harm will come to you, if you stay very, _very_ still for me.” 

He waits a moment for her response.

And to his immense disappointment she slowly nods, chest heaving, the flush of arousal spreading over her skin.

With one hand, he draws the faux-knife over her body, moving as slowly and precisely as if it were a real blade. With the other he works on her already oversensitized body, watching as she vacillates between fear and pleasure, her face an ever-changing fresco, lovely and impermanent.

When his hand hovers over her apex, he brings the other up, resting the tip of the aether at her neck. 

She lets out a strangled noise, arms shaking with the effort to stay still.

He had abused her already, wringing climax after climax out of her, and she is an overstimulated, jumpy mess as he slips two fingers easily into her, smooth as silk. When he digs the “knife” a fraction harder into her skin, she whimpers. 

“Exarch, please, don’t, _please_ —“ 

He fucks her hard and fast, delighting in every lovely little sound she makes, how her whole body shakes for him, how far beyond the brink he’s pushed her. Raha can almost, _almost_ lose himself in this. Her hips tip upward into him, stretching on tip-toe to meet him, breathing hard and fast against the knife at her throat.

“Exarch—“

_No._

_Anything but that._

“Say my name,” he demands. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself; he quickens his pace, wrist cramping with the effort. 

“I—I don’t know— _Exarch—“_

“Say it,” his voice is low, desperate, pleading with her.

There was a power in names. Name him and end this. Name him and end the game, end this pathetic charade they were so damnably determined to continue. He wanted _his_ name to fall off her lips, to break this spell. 

He digs the knife in harder at her throat. If she was any more sensible, she’d have known in this moment it was a ploy. “Say it, Warrior of Light.” 

“I don’t know it!” she sobs, and even still her hips buck forward into his hand, brows furrowing with confusion, delirium. She was close; he could feel her tightening around him, the sweet breathy whine of her voice. “I don’t… _ahh…_ I don’t… know…” 

And just as he feels the tide of her break around him, she speaks. 

Under her breath, so soft he nearly misses it, she pleads. 

_“Raha.”_

The universe halts in place.

Time suspends. 

And a thrum of coldest terror shudders through his blood.

He stumbles back from her, numb and dazed, mind reeling. 

_How did she…? How could she possibly…?_

He hadn’t known why he’d asked her his name—he _knew_ she didn’t know, and yet he’d tortured her with it all the same.

And—she was _correct._

But the greatest shock of all is still to come. 

“I’m so sorry,” her broken sob sounds malms away, unable to focus on anything at all with the wave of dread drowning him. “Exarch, I— I don’t know why I said that, I just—I just wanted to give you an answer—I don’t… I don’t know what came over me, please, _please_ listen to me, I’m so…” 

She chokes on a whimper, crying in earnest. 

Each of her pleas feels like a knife driven into his heart and twisted. “You just— you remind me of him, sometimes, it was so _stupid,_ I didn’t… You’re the only one I care for, you’ve taken up so much of me, I swear it…” 

Raha sinks to his knees.

He raises a numb, trembling hand to his cheeks—tear-strewn.

His entire body is cold, as if the crystal had completed its consumption.

She had unconsciously named him.

And she thought he was _angry_ at her. 

“Exarch?” It is a plaintive, vulnerable plea. Seeking answers, seeking comfort.

He had to respond. His own terror could wait. He had to make amends _immediately_ for what he had done to her. He speaks without feeling, dazed and remote from his very flesh. 

“There was no knife,” he tells her, slowly standing on trembling legs. “It was merely aether, manipulated to feel sharp and cold. You were never in any danger.” 

“I didn’t think you would hurt me,” she murmurs. “I _knew_ you wouldn’t.” 

In no shard, in no life, would he ever deserve someone like her. 

“I’m not angry,” he assures her, forcing some semblance of warmth into his voice. Artificial or not, she _needed_ to hear it. “You have done nothing wrong, nothing to be at fault for. The blame lies entirely on me, and I cannot begin to apologize for what I’ve done.” He releases the anchor, catching her when she falls, numb and boneless into his arms with a sigh. 

“I was the one—“ 

He presses a finger to her lips before lifting her off the floor, slipping his arms beneath the bend of her knees and at her back. “Hush now,” he murmurs to her. “Let me take care of you, _please_. Just this once.”

He draws a hot bath for her, finding a semblance of relief in turning on the spigot, filling the bath with oils, gently dropping her down into the warm waters. The Exarch pulls the blindfold off her once his cowl is restored, and she blinks up at him with wide, dazed eyes.

While she soaks in the waters, head tipped back and face slack, he retrieves her clothes. He mends her torn tunic with a hasty weaver’s spell, one he used on his own clothes after battles.

They do not speak as she bathes. She watches him with wide, bloodshot eyes, as if trapped with a feral animal.

And yet, despite everything, there was _warmth_ to them still. Tenderness in how she looked upon him, how she let him towel her off, resting her hands on his shoulders to steady herself.

It hurt far worse than her prior iciness. 

“I can dress myself,” she retorts, bundled in a towel on his bed as he slides her leggings up her soft, warm legs.

“You can,” he agrees, fastening her bottoms. “But I should like to do it for you, if you will allow me.” 

She watches him with those wide, soft eyes—far softer than the hard gaze she’d settled on him when she first entered—as he pulls her tunic over her head, fumbling with the fabric. He adjusts it so it lays just as it did before, drawing her hair over her shoulder.

Dressed and pampered, there was nothing left for her to do but depart.

She should leave—she should _flee—_ and yet, she lingers.

He finds himself unable to stop touching her—a misguided, pathetic attempt to soothe the anguish tearing him apart, to ease the memory of what he put her through. He smooths down her damp hair, runs his hands down her shoulders, looks upon the uplift of her cheeks, her lips.

“Exarch,” she whispers, catching his hand. “I just wanted to say—“

He calls her name, a soft plea. “Please,” he begs, “let us speak of this when you return from Amh Araeng. Pray do not think on what occurred here.”

She hesitates, then nods. For one wild moment, she leans forward as if to kiss him—a motion he was growing painfully used to—before she takes a step back, squaring her shoulders.

“I’ll be back when I’ve killed another Lightwarden,” she says, feigning cheerfulness.

He sighs.

“I suppose you will.” 

That first night, he had vowed he would never use her. He swore he would not wield her as carelessly as others had; he would prioritize her health, her happiness. And that had seemed sufficient—it was no different than anything else he had done in this century.

Little did he know he would use her for his own selfish means—to escape the conflict in his heart. 

A pathetic attempt at forcing her to be the one to end what he could not.

As she turns to leave, he finds his voice, rusty with disuse, clogged with all the things he should tell her.

“Wheresoever you go, may you find shade, sinner,” he murmurs. A traditional Norvrandt farewell. 

The smile she graces him with aches worse than any blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to thank witchfall, deathflare, and aulanilockser for their invaluable advice on this chapter, thank you so much. 🖤  
> this chapter was meant to be "hmm, i enjoy hatefucking, let's have that" and then turned into what i would argue is the emotional core of this fic. i was so hesitant to publish it, and rewrote it _so many times_ trying to get it right. i'm not saying this to be like 'go easy on me!' but i did put a lot of thought into writing this.  
> thank you so much for reading, i haven't been good about replying to comments but i read every single one of them.


	13. the dark, the light, the shame.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _He turns to face Emet-Selch, letting his staff ring against the marble floors, and he doesn’t miss how those aureate eyes widen in pleasure, thrilled to finally have the reaction he so sorely desired. The Ascian must have been saving this particular revelation for when he was most certain it would strike true._
>> 
>> _“You would know what I am?” He asks airily, not waiting for Emet-Selch’s response._
> 
> CW for vague discussion of the dubcon scenario in ch. 12. 

_“deny me all you want. you cannot deny what we have done.”  
_ dark knight questline

* * *

The Scions left for Amh Araeng before dawn. There was a bite of chill to the air, and you shiver in your armor as your amaro cuts through the icy gales. Darkened skies bleed into bone white cloudbanks, and you find yourself looking forward to the oppressive heat and dunes of Amh Araeng. 

The barren wasteland offered some measure of solace. As you follow your companions through the rolling sands, you lose yourself in the steady pace of travelling. But your mind still lingers in the Crystarium.

You yourself could scarcely describe what occurred between the two of you, despite being an active participant.

You had gone to him, torn apart by anger and frustration, yes, but there was something more—a bone-deep loneliness, one you had always carried, which grew to a deafening roar in the isolation of your quarters. And when he suggested ending your affair—

It produced a fury in you. A sorrow so deep it bled into violence, a sort you did not think yourself capable of outside the heat of battle..

You found you could not bear to let him go. And so you provoked him.

After all, if you could drive anger out of him—get him to react in some way, it would be all the easier to hate him for it.

But the way he rose to the challenge surprised you.

The plight of G’raha Tia—and the events of the Crystal Tower—felt so near the surface nowadays. The Exarch denied knowing of him, and perhaps that much was true, but there were things unsaid. Things which made you worry for the fate of your friend, dead, alive, or perhaps wearing the face of another.

And thus, his name rose to mind in a daze of fear and pleasure, regret blossoming the moment the two syllables left your lips.

If his violence -- his rage honed by anguish -- had been surprising, it was not half-so surprising as his tenderness after.

The way he cradled you in his arms, close to his body, the ragged drum of his heart evident even through his robes. Washing your hair, toweling and dressing you with kind, delicate touches, a vivid contrast to the carelessness he had treated you with moments before.

Caring for you in any way he could, as if he could not help himself, despite his protestations that he would turn you away.

You had told him bitterly you didn’t want to be loved—

—but how could you describe his actions as aught but…? 

“Warrior?” A light voice calls. Minfilia is catching up beside you, blonde hair shimmering in the blinding light. “Is aught amiss?” 

“Hmm?” You shook your head. You had lagged behind in your pace, so caught up in your own thoughts. “My mind is not… altogether here this day. My apologies.”

She lets loose a small, nervous giggle, smothered hastily behind her hand. You wish she would let it free, and not fear so much what a certain gunbreaker would say. “So I have noticed. May I ask, what occupies your mind so?” 

Her eyes, luminescent sky-blue, pierce through you, as if even if you lied, she would see the truth of the matter.

“Nothing of concern.” You force a smile on your face, something you had been doing more and more often these days. “No, I am rather more curious what is on _your_ mind, young Oracle.” 

Minfilia’s pace falters, her diminutive features the picture of deep thought. “Truthfully,” she says quietly, “I find myself wondering more and more about the _first_ Minfilia. _Your_ Minfilia. The one I… well.” 

_The one I should be,_ goes unsaid. 

“What do you wonder?” 

“What was she like?” Minfilia blurts. “Who was she, how… would she _like_ me?”

You pause, sifting through old, hazy memories—some pleasant, others torrid and anguished. You did not remember the days following the Banquet well. You only remember the acrid stench of the sewers, a flash of kind eyes like quicksilver before Minfilia turned out of your life forever. And after: the treacherous cold of Coerthas, sweetened hot cocoa and a kind soul reassuring you all would be well. Such memories had dulled when shelved between prodigious pain of the events in Ul’dah and that which would follow in Ishgard.

“She was unfailingly kind,” you tell her. “A true paragon. She was selfless and sweet, and I was proud to call her friend. And,” you incline your head, “she would have _loved_ you, Minfilia.”

You watch her pale cheeks color as she ducks her head down, staring at her sandaled feet. “You are too kind,” she whispers. “Forgive me, but I can scarce believe your words.” 

“Then do not believe me,” you tell her. “For it seems you will speak with her soon.” 

There is something of a kinship between you. Oracle and Warrior of Light, both aspected in polarities. To know the call of a god as surely as the tides in your blood, to hear the sirensong of the celestial.

It is a heady, inexplicable thing. One you had time and time again struggled to describe to those who asked. 

Minfilia bids you farewell, jogging ahead briskly to catch up with Urianger. 

You could sense the fear in her, and pitied it.The fear of facing oneself, and not knowing the outcome. You could only hope she would retain herself in the end. 

She, more than anyone, deserved that much.

* * *

G’raha Tia had attended countless funerals in his tenure as the Crystal Exarch. Sometimes grieving loved ones begged him to speak, to offer comfort, to say _something_ where all words lapsed. Other times—most often when a child lost their life—there seemed to be nothing he could say that would deafen the tremendous rage of burying a child in a cruel, unforgiving world. 

But never, in all his years, had there been so many bodies; and where there were not bodies there were abandoned weapons, unfinished journals, half-empty drinking glasses. 

And so the Crystarium was forced to conduct a mass burial.

The digging began before dawn, and did not cease until nightfall. The Exarch took his own turn in the trenches, eager for something to _do,_ some sort of action he could take that had tangible, real results.

It was a testament to the sheer amount of life lost that no one dared dissuade him. They only grimly drove their own spades into the mud right alongside him.

It was well into the evening when all the bodies were buried and he was able to return to the Tower. The battle and burials rendered him a wraith, more crystal than spoken, hollow and bitter in the face of so much desolation. 

And that was _nothing_ to say of what last night had wrought upon him—a matter he had no choice but to put from his mind, lest it consume him entirely.

Mud still caked his sandals, clinging to the hem of his robes. He wavers in the Ocular, captured by the vision of the scrying glass.

The artifact was one of the most powerful tools the Tower had at its disposal, one which had served him well over the years. Part of him resented it; the ability to spy upon anyone without permission rattled his conscience, and he was loathe to use it unless necessary. 

But…

He needed to see her. _Wanted_ to see her.

The Exarch tells himself it is merely to assure she is safe, before waving his staff over the mirror.

The scrying glass hums like the true-tone chime of crystal. From nothingness, a vision blurs, then coalesces.

A defunct Talos, its chest pried open, exposing the hollow hole where the heart should thrum. A Ronso, and next to him the snow-white coat of Thancred Waters, heads bowed in conversation. 

And to the left… 

He sighs in palpable relief at the sight of her. 

Travel-worn and covered with sand perhaps, but the Warrior was none the worse for wear. He did not particularly _relish_ using the scrying glass for such means. Entire tomes had been dedicated to the repercussions of the misuse of such technology. It did not stop the Allagan royalty from abusing the scrying glass, but he held himself to a somewhat different standard than those of eld.

But such trivialities fall to the wayside at the mere glimpse of her, safe and sound.

The Exarch hears the doors to the Ocular open, followed by heavy, careless steps on the crystal floors. 

He could feel the beginnings of a headache even before the Ascian spoke. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure that is your extended stay?” The Exarch kept his voice light and disinterested, unable to conceal the thread of irritation woven in his words. For better or worse, the Ascian brought out his youthful irritability, one he was hard-pressed to keep in check.

But he hadn’t lived this long to be rattled by one such as Emet-Selch.

“Oh, to the tediousness of our hero’s present endeavors.” He did not have to see to know Emet-Selch wore a mask of careless lethargy. “That and an _insufferable_ amount of Light in Amh Araeng. I should be glad to keep my distance.”

The Exarch grits his teeth, keeping his silence. He would not give Emet-Selch the privilege of seeing him in a vulnerable state—and the man seemed particularly prone to filling the silence when conversation fell quiet.

Emet-Selch gives a bored, drawling yawn. “I’m rather fond of sleep, you know. A wonderful way to pass the time.” His voice drops into sardonic. “Not that my compeers would agree, mind you. Always on the move, the lot of them. Like Lahabrea, constantly jumping from vessel to vessel. Such fire, such determination. So much passion, fleeting and forgotten.”

Fleeting and forgotten passion? Of what did he speak? Lahabrea’s demise, or the demise of his people? He couldn’t help but attempt to peer over a shoulder, for a better hint at Emet-Selch’s game.

Evidently he has risen to bait.

“Come to think of it, Exarch, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you retire to your chambers for so much as forty winks. _However_ do you keep your eyes from closing?” Emet-Selch sneers.

He keeps his council. If the gods had any mercies left, Emet-Selch would not re-remind him of the night they first met. The man had a propensity for showing up at the absolute _worst_ of times, and the Exarch is increasingly disinterested in entertaining his presence.

“The cold shoulder.” Emet-Selch’s tone is melodramatic yet mocking. “You wound me, sir. Always so guarded in our every interaction. Interactions you curiously refrain from sharing with the Scions and their champion.”

He finally finds his voice, unable to help himself. “And risk souring your budding relationship?” He rolls his eyes at the mere idea. “I think not. Much as I dislike you, there are more useful targets for her energies. And I am not in the habit of pointing her at my enemies like a weapon.”

“Is that right?” Emet-Selch purrs. “ _Fond_ of her, are you?”

The Exarch clenches his jaw so tight he fears his molars might crack and focuses on the image of the Warrior bending beside the Talos, forcing himself to attempt to discern that which she sought to solve. He was familiar with the Talos in theory, but there were next to no Ronso nor Mystel alive who understood how to operate them, and thus the technology had never been utilized by the Crystarium, helpful though they may have been.

“You continue to fascinate me, Exarch. But tell me. Who _are_ you?”

His grip tightens on his staff. This anger, this _bitterness_ is a trial he must contend with. If he had soiled any opportunities with Vauthry, slim though they may have been, he could not show his hand so blatantly to Emet-Selch.

Regardless of what the man knew of him.

Emet-Selch does exactly as the Exarch predicts—his voice rises with passion, the Ocular a stage hardly able to contain the man. His voice fills the vaunted ceilings, acoustics echoing as if a performance. “The once great nation whose ingenuity gave birth to this Tower was shaped by _my_ hand. As such, I know full well the wonders it can facilitate, and those it cannot. There is nothing in these walls which could have aided you in summoning our dear friend across time and space. Much less in possession of her mortal flesh.” 

A strange sense of bitterness—perhaps chagrined at the mystery of the Exarch—slips into Emet-Selch’s voice. ”Not even _I_ could have performed such a feat.”

He had been rewarded for his silence with invaluable information. “I see,” The Exarch murmurs aloud to himself. “You had a hand in Allag as well.” He had wondered when the Ascian seemed somewhat familiar with the Tower, but handwaved it initially to Ascian eccentricities. But this…

His life’s work, tainted by that white-gloved hand and knowing gilded glare.

If he had any more time left—for he was down to counting the days now—G’raha Tia might have pondered over the knowledge. Traced the intricacies through history’s rivulets.

But it is not work he would be able to do. And this—this in conjunction with how easily Emet-Selch toyed with existence, how _pointless_ and trivial life itself was to him, save that which served his purposes—soured him, and left him hollow and disappointed.

He turns to face Emet-Selch, letting his staff ring against the marble floors, and he doesn’t miss how those aureate eyes widen in pleasure, thrilled to finally have the reaction he so sorely desired. The Ascian must have been saving this particular revelation for when he was most certain it would strike true.

“You would know what I am?” He asks airily, not waiting for Emet-Selch’s response. “ _I_ am the adjudicator of the sacred history with which you dared trifle. I am keeper of this Tower’s boundless wisdom, the wisdom of ages without age, of everywhere and nowhere. The great work of those who tamed the wings of time and grasped the nature of the rift.”

He feels possessed of that terrible, strange calmness when he felt the Tower’s influence most keenly—an agelessness brought about by too many years lived, too many lives lost. Dreams squandered and shattering into dust. “’Tis a boon born of sacrifices yet unmade. The parting gift of brave heroes who will one day give their lives for a brighter future. I will not see their hopes and dreams squandered. The history which led us here _will_ be unwritten.” 

His voice drops low, unfeigned hatred in every syllable. “I promise you that.”

He knows it is a fool’s errand to attempt to inspire fear in the man, but if anyone could undo that which he had worked tirelessly to wrought, it would be Emet-Selch.

And he would suffer no one to trivialize all of the lives lost, all of the suffering which had brought him to this time and place, to fulfill his life’s purpose. 

To save _her._

Emet-Selch’s head tips back, a sneer playing on his full lips. ”Well.” Arrogant and cruel, he would be beautiful if beneath the veneer there wasn’t hatred incarnate. “It seems we are both eager to fulfill our duties, then.”

The Exarch inclines his head.

Recognizing the gauntlet thrown on the floor.

“On that much, we are in agreement.” 

* * *

A world beyond the edges of the universe, the pure aspect of Light incarnate. 

A dead woman rendered a madonna before you, with those same luminescent eyes, and a knowing that struck you to the core. 

The phantasmal, unreckonable knowledge betokening that of a god.

Minfilia is at once the most alive you had ever known her and the most definitively dead. She exists in the in-between. You can only barely grasp the nature of her at all.

And then, it is over. You are sprawled in the sands, clambering desperately to your feet and taking off at a dead sprint towards a small body, her white chiffon dress fluttering in the wind.

Minfilia stares up at you with aquamarine eyes, clear and lucid, a tumble of auburn hair about her face, and you know that she retained herself and more.

No longer an avatar or plaything of Hydaelyn’s, her power was hers and hers alone to wield.

She was herself. Her own entity—her own _person._

You found yourself, much as you did with Alisaie, having to clench your jaw against the envy and fear. Were you truly yourself anymore, your soul caught up between the paralyzing push and pull of Light and Hydaelyn’s presence in you?

Thancred—battered, bloodied Thancred, reminding you all too much of when you pulled him from the rubble of the Praetorium—gives Minfilia a rueful smile, and names her thus. 

_Ryne._

Blessing, in the tongue of the fae-folk. A clear, bright sound, sonorous and lovely. Perfectly befitting a girl who is beginning to bear the title she had been so unwillingly granted with a measure of pride. 

Storge is put to the sword and slaughtered, just as Titania and Philia were, and night is once more returned to Amh Araeng. 

You are a trained hunter by this point, carving through the denizens dwelling at the bottom of Malikah’s Well with an easy familiarity. 

You could not fault the Exarch for deeming you the Warrior of Darkness. Violence suited you like a worn blanket, comforting in its familiarity, seductive in its lure. 

When Amh Araeng’s Lightwarden falls in a flurry of feathers and incandescent godbeams, you wonder if you should feel something more than just the buzzing headache in the back of your head.

The only thing you can feel— and your sole regret is that Tesleen is not there to see it, and Alisaie echoes your sorrow. 

You glance over your hands, self-consciously peeking at your hair, wondering if the signs of the poison within you is growing obvious. As you make your way back to the Crystarium, Ryne and Y’shtola share worried glances, and look at you surreptitiously when you’re not looking.

And then, Ryne confirms that which you feared the most.

“The light within you has grown monstrous.” 

And is if called to the forefront by Ryne herself, the Light overwhelms you.

It is as if staring directly into the fires of Dalamud itself, consuming all in its path, ice and fire working in tandem to raze your skin, your bones, your very soul.

And as soon as it happens, it is over, and you are left staring blearily at Y’shtola and Ryne, who immediately shoo you to your quarters. Sending you off with a final command, one you would be hard-pressed to obey. 

_Rest._

Rest and wait for the plan.

Rest and know that things will come to pass. 

Sheathe the weapon until it is time to be wielded once more.

Until it is time to slaughter yet another blighted entity, for the sake of twin stars.

You feel less than human as you decide to commit yourself to the creature comforts of your apartment.

Even with Ardbert’s harsh words and the flagrant pain of yet another paroxysm of light, you think rest might be possible.

That is, until you hear a tentative knock at the door. 

You could not pretend your heart didn’t swell to see the Crystal Exarch. He spoke casually, but there was something in his voice you hadn’t heard before—a sorrow that only peered out from his shadows in the dark of night, fleeting glimpses dissipating into nothingness upon further examination.

You wait for him to mention the night prior—and yet, he avoids it entirely.

“I’ll not keep you from your rest any longer,” The Exarch smiles gently. “Take as much time as you like.”

Before you could respond, he turns on his heel and strides down the hall.

You struggle for words for a moment before following him out. _“Exarch!”_

He stops in place, but does not face you. Still as stone, immutable as crystal.

“We need to talk,” you say, desperate, “about the other night.” 

His voice is deceptively light, the same feigned innocence from his confrontation with Ran’jit. It stings to hear him use it against you. “Whatever do you mean, my friend?” 

“You know _exactly_ that which I mean,” you seethe. “You promised we would speak of it upon my return, only I did not anticipate you so eager to run away once more from your problems. Or am I merely a distraction to you? Just another tool, a _weapon?_ ” 

He turns towards you, a grim expression on his features, hands raised as if to placate you. “I meant no disrespect; I only wanted to give you time to rest. Pray lower your—“

“—My voice?” You roll your eyes, tone sardonic. “What, afraid someone will overhear us, Lord Exarch?”

He looks downright flustered now. Gods help you, you couldn’t help but provoke him _again,_ anything to get him to stay. “It isn’t— this isn’t the place—“

Bitterness slips into your voice, and you pitch your voice louder. “No, I suppose it isn’t. _You’re_ far too concerned with appearances to—“

“Not. _Here.”_

A trained warrior thrice over, The Exarch could move fast; fatigued from your travels and the pain in your chest, he surprises you, grabbing you in one, smooth movement and pulling you into back into your quarters, slamming the door and pushing you against the wall.

His hands on either side of your head, hunched over you. 

You were certain if you could see his eyes, they would be burning into you.

It’s difficult to catch your breath, for he crowds _everything_ else and leaves no space for you to so much as think. 

You might even be flustered by how close he was, if you weren’t so _furious_ with him.

“Forgive me,” he says softly, “for I could not suffer any eavesdroppers.” 

“What happened that night?” You demand. “What—why did— _how—_ “

“What happened,” he grates, speaking in a low, furious tone, “was a _mistake._ My mistake, which I will apologize for a thousand times. It was the unfortunate evidence of why we cannot continue this, why we _must_ stop—“ As if only now aware of how close he was, he shoves himself off you, “— _meeting_ like this.” 

You shake your head, finding yourself short of breath. “The fault is mine, I was the one who pushed you, _knowing_ it would hurt you.”

“ _Your_ fault?” He barks an incredulous laugh. “Need I remind you, Warrior, that you were _bound and blindfolded?_ Not even to give mention of my—my harebrained, asinine, ill-conceived way of trying to sever—sever whatever _this_ is—“

“Perhaps if you were not so _infatuated_ with secrecy,” you throw Y’shtola’s words back in his face, “we could have a clear discussion on whatever _this_ is, without resorting to torturing and manipulating one another.”

“You’ve done absolutely nothing—“

White hot anger flares in you—so incandescent you almost fear it is the Light, here to expunge you one last time.

You grab his shoulder in a vise-grip, shoving him into the wall with all your weight, gripping the back of his hood and pushing his face into the stone. You pant into his shoulder, not lessening your clutch on his cowl even a centime. “I know what I’ve done,” you growl, “and I am sorry, for what I have put you through. But we cannot even begin to repair this until you stop _hiding_ from me.” 

You pull back the hood an ilm. You see a white lock of hair peek from his robes, his face turned away from you.

“Even if you unhood me,” he says, defeated, “you wouldn’t recognize the man beneath.” 

“Then why hide at all?” You persist. 

“I do not criticize _your_ decisions, Warrior. Pray do not criticize mine.” 

You huff a tired, broken chuckle. “Of course you don’t, because you decide everything _for_ me.” 

You feel his body coil beneath you, his fist slamming into the wall. “I have only done—I have only _ever_ done—what was necessary to save this world—to save _our_ worlds.” His voice rises, that same fiery passion you saw all those weeks ago in Holminster Switch. “If my failures are too unforgivable, if you find me wanting, I apologize. I cannot blame you. But do not think I decide such things thoughtlessly.” 

Your grip on him slackens. “Then why did—don’t tell me seducing me was part of this godsforsaken _plan_ of yours.” 

He takes your moment of weakness. Twists from you only to push you into the wall, but it is different. Not the practical matter of a warrior—his hands are hard at your waist, splaying over your ribs, his body pressed inexorably against yours, broad chest crammed against your back. 

Reminding you of all those darkened, quiet nights spent together.

And for a blessed, incandescent moment, you no longer feel alone.

Your body rebels, arching back to squirm ever closer to him.

“It was not,” he breathes in your ear, “part of any plan. If I could undo what I’ve wrought upon us, I would. But…”

You shiver, a soft cry slipping from you when his lips meet your neck, hot, open-mouthed, _desperate._ “I cannot think of anything else,” he breathes, “my mind knows this is hopeless, courting disaster itself, but my _heart…_ ” He tangles his hand in your hair, “is consumed with thoughts of _you._ ”

The twin sides of agony and ardor. That push and pull that guided you from bliss to heartbreak beckons.

You turn in his arms, your mouth colliding with his, unable to stop yourself even knowing what you did.

Knowing this could only end in ruin.

He whimpers against your mouth, soft and vulnerable, your arms coming hard around his shoulders, pulling him down, pulling him closer. He sweeps his hands down your back, to your haunches, hoisting you up and into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist, delighting in it, he’s moving down to your neck, finishing what he started with nips and bites—

“We can’t,” he gasps against your neck, licking a scorching stripe up to your mouth, capturing it once more, swallowing your answering moan, “this cannot continue.” 

“You’re right,” you breathe, beyond the point of caring, sliding your hand around his neck to tug him closer, “we shouldn’t—“

He breaks away, pressing his forehead against the wall, struggling to catch his breath. “We _can’t,”_ he persists. “I won’t.”

His words are a dash of ice water against a flame.

You disengage your limbs, feet finding the floor once more. You cannot help but remember how tenderly he treated you that night, all his soft, gentle ministrations. Did he want this at all? Were you and your emotions a mere amusement to him?

“Would that I knew what best pleased you,” you whisper, feeling lost, “for you are even now a stranger to me.” 

He takes a tentative step back. Lingers on you for a moment, lips parted to say something.

As if thinking better on it, his mouth twists. “Forgive me, Warrior, for taking up so much of your time,” he mutters before leaving you, slamming the door with unnecessary force behind him.

You cover your face with both hands, sinking to the floor.

You felt caught between astral and umbral polarities, stuck in the in-between, in stasis. 

Neither able to resist, nor pull away.

You struggle to collect yourself, choking on hitching sobs, burying your face into your hands. Worried every tear will be one too many and the Light would burst forth again, and unable to hold them back all the same.

So much like your first night in the Crystarium.

After a while, there is a knock at the door. Brisk and business-like.

Wiping your face, _praying_ it wasn’t the Exarch, you come to your feet and answer the door.

“Ah,” she says brusquely, “Warrior. A word?”

It was Captain Lyna. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this bad boy can fit so many period romance and hozier references
> 
> thank you so much for all the kind comments on last chapter, i cried over several of them (in good ways!) to those of you who read despite having reservations, thank you for trusting me enough to read something like that. it means so so so much to me that you let this clown entertain you haha
> 
> on a positive note, that's as sexually dark as this fic gets, so the worst (in a way, eheh) is over!


	14. knowledge never sleeps.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _“I must ask this of you—have a care with his heart, Warrior of Darkness. He admires you as he does no one and nothing else. It is as a sickness, and to prolong his suffering would be cruelty.”_  
> 
> 
> No new CWs apply; but there is some spicy handholding. >;3 

_“stand tall my friend,  
_ _may all of the dark lost inside you find light again.”  
_ || tomorrow and tomorrow — masayoshi soken ||

* * *

The Viis looks out of place in your quarters, far too formal and stiff for such a location. You offer her water and she refuses. She stands tensely in the center of the room, ears swiveling for any sounds, ever attentive to the ongoings of the Crystarium.

You finally seat yourself at the kitchen bench, wary and tired, resigning yourself to the Captain’s interrogation.

“This is… not my business,” Captain Lyna speaks haltingly, as if looking for any excuse to quit the subject, “but I find I cannot help but find myself embroiled in it all the same. I know—a _little_ —what is happening, between you and the Exarch. He has told me nothing, but… well, some things are simply… _obvious_.”

You look away, a hot flush of embarrassment rising to your cheeks. The Viis was doubtless older than you, but you had no wish to air out your personal matters involving her grandfather. 

She crosses her arms, bracers clinking against one another. “The Exarch has always been alone, predisposed to solitude, and shy. While he is a warrior, he is also a gentle soul.” She shuffles, ill-at-ease. “But I do not come to sing his platitudes. He admires you. You… _no one_ has affected him as you have.” 

She begins pacing, her words coming faster now, more furious. “I have known my lord for five decades now, and I have never seen him like this, and I find myself helpless to do anything. If you do not wish for his attentions, do not entertain them. I am not here to plead his case. However…”

And she halts, fixing her violet eyes on you. 

Lakeland fields in a summer storm.

“I must ask this of you—have a care with his heart, Warrior of Darkness. He admires you as he does no one and nothing else. It is as a sickness, and to prolong his suffering would be cruelty.”

You frown at her. “I understand your concern, but—he is self-possessed, a city _leader,_ surely he is capable of handling whatever _this_ is. I…” You laugh, incredulous, “surely this is not—“

“—Not where you are concerned,” she says sharply. “He is helpless. I have…” She gestures towards the hallway, exasperated, “I have _never_ seen him as such. In all my days.” Her voice cracks at the end. 

She runs a gloved hand through the tumble of her silver hair. With a pang, you remember the white lock of hair you’d uncovered—the most you’d ever seen of the Exarch’s features.

“Once, I pressed him on who he loved so dearly, for I knew there must be someone, their identity as much a mystery as his. A girl, he told me, one he had met long, long ago.”

“But I have never met him before,” you blurt.

Lyna frowns. “Yes. I know. Which leads me to two possibilities. Either you _have_ met him and he merely wears a guise you do not recognize, or he has abandoned his lost love for the sake of you. But I have never, in all my years, known him to abandon anything. He is as steady and unyielding as the tower itself.” 

You open your mouth to respond, and she raises a hand. “I have said my piece, and overstepped my bounds. I shall not disturb you any longer, Warrior.”

As if she didn’t want to question herself, she opens the door again, hesitating in the entryway for a moment, her shrewd gaze lingering on you before leaving with a swish of her scarlet cloak.

You come to your feet, unsteady. You move to the open window and lean your head out to breathe the fresh air.

Lyna’s words weigh heavily on you. Perhaps you had been dwelling on the hope that all this had been easy for him, that _you_ were the only one suffering…

… and it was yet more confirmation that there was more to your bond than he had led you to believe.

* * *

The Exarch didn’t see her for three suns. 

The Scions sought to refrain from putting undo strain on their friend, wisely omitting her from several lengthy meetings discussing their upcoming strategies in Kholusia. Those meetings were terse, stressful affairs. Y’shtola in particular had grown increasingly mistrustful of both he and Urianger, questioning their every tactic and suggestion with razor-sharp wit in a tone that brooked no foolishness. Ryne was speaking up more now, wanting to place herself at the forefront of the plan. He could sense Thancred wanting to quiet her, protect her, but even he knew that it was past the time for such things and kept his peace. 

When the Warrior was summoned to the Tower, the Exarch made himself scarce, excusing himself with any number of other duties to save from having to see her. If anyone was suspicious, they said nothing, likely chalking his absence up to his eccentricities.

Emet-Selch called on him once, while he was reading in the Umbilicus. Slithered in with a whorl of effervescent umbral aether, slouched and smirking.

“What do you want, Ascian?” The Exarch grated, not looking up from his book. His temper was growing shorter each day, and he could feel how quickly he was running out of time.

“Oh,” Emet-Selch crooned, cocking his head. “Lover’s quarrel?” 

The Exarch chucked his book at Emet-Selch’s face without thinking. 

It collided against the wall, and Emet-Selch was gone, only the ghost of his chuckle lingering in the room.

By the fourth day, there was no avoiding it. They needed to confer with her on their plans in Eulmore. They had a spy who had been feeding the Crystarium information, and while they had their suspicions on what might come to pass, the Warrior’s input would be invaluable. He may have weathered a hundred battles over the years, but she was the true conqueror and Warrior of Darkness. 

Would she be furious? Irritable? Through his carelessness had he exacerbated her condition even further? He found himself distracted to the point of uselessness the entire morning, forcing himself with gritted teeth to bend his head down to his work. The spell which would transfer the Light from her body to his was immensely complex, and while he certainly had the aetherial arithmetic memorized, it could not, under any circumstances, go wrong, and thus he was reproofing the entire equation. 

Finally, there was no delaying it any longer. He took a deep steadying breath, trying to find a semblance of composure in himself. He could not afford compromise, not now. Not when there was so much that needed to be done, and little time with which to work with. 

He who had the luxury of centuries knew how quickly mere days could fall away. 

Urianger had escorted the Scions to one of the libraries; it would not do to have eavesdroppers, and while the Exarch did not think Eulmore had successfully sent spies into the Crystarium, he would not risk it. 

“My friends,” he greets, inclining his head. “Thank you for meeting with me.” 

Forcing serenity onto his face, he finally turns to the Warrior. “I trust you have rested well?” 

She blinks up at him from her seat. “I have, thank you,” she says softly. 

She would not give him anger or sorrow—no, instead he would have to settle with her indifference.

And somehow, that stung deeper than anything else she could have done.

The only free seat was between her and Urianger. He sank into it slowly, as if half-expecting to sit on a barb. She was dressed in that same casual outfit as the night she came to visit him—perhaps an attempt at taking her status as a convalescent seriously. She crosses her legs, leaning her body away from him and towards the front. 

He had no right to want her. No right to feel sorrowful, for she owed him less than nothing. 

And yet, he _aches_ all the same. 

It feels nigh impossible for him to focus. He is painfully aware of her every movement—the subtle shift of her hair, her quiet sighs, bringing her hand to her chin to contemplate Thancred’s words—

Godsdamnit all, he’s only gone without her for three suns—after going without her for over a _century_ —and the knife-edge of pain felt precisely as keen as ever.

It is his turn to speak. He presents the information their informant had given them, setting his gaze on anyone, anything _else_ but her. Eidetic memory was an Allagan trait, one he is immeasurably grateful for, and it serves him well here, for his mind was not wholly focused on the task at hand, agonizingly aware of her every breath.

He falters into silence when he feels her shift again—closer to him, her leg brushing against his as she shifts. 

_It means nothing, and even if it did, this cannot_ —

“Thancred,” Y’shtola interrupts, “can you re-remind me why subterfuge is unavailable to us?” 

“Certainly,” Thancred smiles—he seemed cheerful enough to use his old skills for the task at hand. “It comes down to a matter of reliability—“

Thancred’s voice fades into nothingness when he feels her hand brush against his thigh beneath the table.

It _burns_ through his robes, scorching him to ash, his heart rioting in his chest—gods above, being _close_ to her was enough to undo him.

She was looking pointedly away from him, her hand situated on the edge of her chair. 

Lecturing himself all the while, the Exarch slips a hand down into his lap.

He shouldn’t. It was fruitless. _Ridiculous._

But something in him refused to be silenced. 

And the courage to reach out possessed him.

He drifts a finger over her clenched knuckles, featherlight. Gentle enough it could be mistaken as accident. 

He feels a scorching flush climbing his neck when she bumps her hand against his in return.

He couldn’t… he told her _himself_ this could not continue. How many times had he tried to end this? How many _more_ times would it take before he found the courage within himself to desist this maddening affair?

And yet, he lingered. 

“Exarch?” 

His head jerks upwards. “What was the question?” he says automatically, embarrassed. 

“Perhaps it is time for a break,” Alisaie offers, yawning wide. “I myself am like to fall asleep here if we continue. And supper would be nice.” 

“I quite agree,” Ryne pipes up, her voice still small despite her new outspoken nature. “And we shouldn’t overexert the Warrior.”

She huffs. “I’m fairly losing my _mind_ with how much you’ve had me rest. But fair enough.” 

“A bell should be sufficient,” the Exarch finds himself saying. “If all are in agreement.”

He stays in his seat as he watches the Scions depart one by one, Ryne speaking worriedly to Y’shtola about her ability to perceive the Light—and the Warrior lingers in the doorway for a moment, as if waiting for everyone else to leave. 

She glances over at him, her eyes wary. 

He opens his mouth to speak and cannot bring himself to say what he should. 

She sighs, turning away. 

_No, no!_ Something furious explodes in him—before he can think to stop himself, before he can correct his course, find the faintest sense of rationale in himself—

The Exarch reaches out, grabbing her arm.

“I would—we should,” he stammers, then swallows. “Please, don’t leave,” he whispers, pained.

They stare at one another for several long moments, a vacuum falling between them. There is something _tender_ to her expression, and all he can see are her wide eyes searching his, mouth parted as if to speak—

He is forever doomed to repeat the mistakes of history. 

The Exarch goes to her before he can think better on it. 

He tugs her into his arms and crushes her lips to his in one smooth movement. _Surrenders_ wholly into her, his defenses crumbling into nothingness as she sighs happily against his mouth, both hands coming up to fist either side of his hood. He presses his hand against the small of her back, crushing her to him, the other tangling in her hair—

“Need you,” she gasps, “ _now,_ godsdammit.” 

He blinks, struggling to clear his head—he hadn’t thought that far, had only thought of how _badly_ he wanted her—

Evidently she tires of waiting for his indecision; still gripping his robes, she pedals backward until she hits the bookshelves, pulling his head back down for a vicious, unrelenting kiss— _gods_ he could lose himself in her, groaning against her mouth with newly rekindled hunger. She hikes a leg up his waist and he acts on pure instinct, hands sliding down her back to curve over her haunches, lifting her off the floor and into his arms.

“If you don’t want this,” she hisses—mouthing at his neck, strong thighs gripping him tight, “tell me, but don’t—“

“How could I _not?”_ he pleads, cradling her chin to force her head up to his. “How on this shard could I not want you? Not _need_ you—“ 

Something like relief crosses her face, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears before she tugs him back down. “Take me,” she murmurs, “Exarch, please, right here and _now—“_

It was madness, bloodlust in the purest sense. If he didn’t know any better he might have suspected he was falling prey to another heat with how heedlessly he fell into her, yanking down her breeches in quick, rushed movements, struggling with his robes to free himself as she mouthed at his jaw, his neck, scattering kisses like stardust at the seam separating crystal from spoken—

He had her nearly folded over, shoved against the bookshelf so hard _surely_ it must hurt, tugging aside her smalls just enough—

“Wicked _white,”_ he swears, “how are you so—“ 

Whatever he was going to say fades into nothingness, melting into a moan as he slips between her folds, deliciously warm and slick. She keens against him, capturing his mouth, his moans in a long, languid kiss, all tongue and her contented hums and the wild, intoxicating scent of her. 

“Don’t stop,” she urges, “I can’t— _oh,_ how I’ve _missed_ you—“

He can’t help himself, not when she sounds like that, _saying_ things like that—delusion or no, he can’t help but let himself believe her, burrowing his face into her shoulder, nipping at her flesh as he pistons into her, picking up a ragged speed—

He feels her bootheel dig into his back, surely hard enough to bruise as he fucks her—another thrust and two books tumble to the floor; some distant voice in his head lectures him that those were priceless artifacts—

But he can’t think, can’t feel anything but her. Her breathy whines in his ear, urging him on, the languid, silken push and pull of her, a tide he was helpless but to answer. 

“I can think of _nothing else_ but you,” he whispers, desperate, “ever since that night—“

“Come undone for me,” she purrs, “Exarch, _please…”_

She beckons him over the precipice, and so much like that first night—like all of their times together—he is bound to her words, more helpless than she regardless of restraint or blindfolds. The wet slap of skin-on-skin grows louder, depraved and indulgent—

He comes with a hoarse cry, burying his face into her shoulder, biting down on her neck so hard _surely_ he had broken the skin. She whimpers around him, calling his title, soothing him, reaching up to cradle his face as he winds down, struggling for breath. 

“I would—you deserve—“

“You know we don’t have time,” she whispers gently. 

Reality crashes down around him. Gods _knew_ how soon the Scions would return, and he wouldn’t live to see the last Lightwarden if Y’shtola saw such a sight.

“Of course,” he sighs, kissing her forehead, tasting her sweat on his tongue.

He disengages from her, their limbs so tangled around one another it takes some thought to untangle themselves. He helps her dress before anything else, and she watches him with a tender expression as he hikes back up her leggings, righting her tunic.

“Come here,” she breathes.

He falters, his hands resting on her shoulders.

The Warrior leans up, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, and kisses him.

She had never kissed him like this. No ferocity, no heat, no anguish or frustration behind it. Soft and gentle, humming into it with contentment.

As if she too, treasured him as much as he did her. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, ducking her head down in a rare show of shyness. “I… perhaps we should… no,” she cuts herself off abruptly, muttering to herself so low he could scarcely hear it, “he wouldn’t wish for that.” 

“Pardon?” he prompts gently. 

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time, Exarch. I’ll see you soon.” 

He watches her, feeling torn as she turns and leaves. The web they had woven themselves into… Did she think he was all but _using_ her? That he didn’t feel precisely the same way, that he wasn’t consumed with her entirely, that he hadn’t dreamed of her all these years? 

Raha kneels down to pick up the fallen books, righting the rumpled pages and wishing one of them held the knowledge to tell her what she needed to hear.

* * *

It evades sense, describing the Light which burns so fiercely within you. It is there and it is _not._ It is part of you yet _outside_ of you, a force greater than yourself contained to the dull throb in your breast. Contradictions aplenty in complete synchronization. _Rest,_ the Scions had pleaded. Did they sense their weapon would crumble under the pressure, a blade fracturing into a thousand razored shards during the critical moment? 

You felt fragile as paper thin seashells, stronger than the bulwark cliffsides of Kholusia. You yearned to turn away from the warhorns of battle beckoning you, deafen yourself to them. Felt the bizarre compulsion to sink your teeth into living flesh, to know what it meant to drink another’s warm, alkaline blood. You pace the confines of your quarters, organize your things, put them into disarray and do it all over just to alleviate the tedium of your bind. You turn the orchestrion far too loud, the familiar melodies setting your nerves on edge. 

The moon, shaved to a hangnail crescent, is high in its arc when you give in. If the Exarch would not alleviate your tedium, you would find something to do with yourself. Ardbert watches in contemplative silence, a phantasm sundered from the flows of time, as you throw on clothes and stomp into the foyer. 

The lamps burn low and warm against the chill of night. The brisk cold is welcome against the fever coursing in you. Your feet, moving of their own accord, draw you first to your heart’s desire—the Exedra, and the glimmering asymmetric spire of the Tower piercing the dark, indignant against the encroaching Light. You stand before the stairs, wonder what the Exarch was doing at such an hour. You imagined him hunched over piles of books and tomes, lost in some obscure marginalia.

How would he look at you, if you draped a blanket over those worn, broad shoulders? Beckoned him to bed with promises of lavender tea and fireside conversation? 

Your throat closes painfully at the idea, unbearably more agonizing than any of the torments you had subjected one another to in the past moon. 

The hour is late enough the Wandering Stairs is empty save for one bartender, a Ronso with silver fur and kind eyes who looks up from his book when you approach. 

“Warrior,” he greets pleasantly. “ Strange to see you up and about so late. Out for a nightcap, perhaps?” 

“Something like that.” You glance over the dozens of bottles behind him, squinting. “Frankly, my sense of taste is leaving me. Do you have anything particularly strong?” 

The bartender considers the bottles for a moment before selecting a blue bottle. “Here.” He draws you a shot-glass, the liquid clear as water. “We call it _joie,_ based on a Voeburtine recipe. They brewed it in the dead of winter on the winter’s solstice, with fresh snow and juniper. While we do not have snow, it is passably made with fresh springwater. I find it intolerable, but it is certainly a shock to the senses.” 

You down it in one bolt. The clear, bright burn of it deafened, but it is tolerable enough. 

“My thanks. What do I owe, for the bottle?”

He laughs, sliding it over to you. “Nothing at all. It is my treat.” 

So you find yourself at a quiet table nursing glass after glass of _joie,_ wondering at how the taste grows less and less sharp with each sip, the strange buzzing in your head at odds with how perfectly sober the rest of you feels. If you were in any semblance of high spirits, you might have attempted to win a bet with your newfound tolerance. 

But it is only one of the dozens of reminders of the changes wrought in you, of the changes still to come. 

You tip your head backwards, taking in the darkened skies above. The firmament is the darkest of blues, uncountable stars spangling the skies, blinking in and out of existence with passing clouds. The crescent moon is razor-sharp, barely perceptible.

In Eorzea, stories could be recounted by marking the constellations in the sky. You didn’t have the memory for them, but—and the memory takes you by storm—no one knew them as well as G’raha Tia did. You recall one evening, huddled around campfire, in which G’raha and Rammbroes argued beneath the stars, Nero occasionally interrupting to muddy their claims, and Cid’s rough, wry voice slipping through it all. Young and feckless though he was, G’raha was an excellent storyteller, the smooth tenor of his voice lulling you into a doze.

You envy, a little, what it was to be so youthful.

“My friend.” 

You tip forward with a start, the legs of your chair meeting the floor once more. The Crystal Exarch smiles fondly at you, an eerie spectre in the darkness. 

“I did not mean to startle, and if you wish to be alone—“

“Stay.” It is a ghost of a whisper, driven forth in desperation. “If you like,” you clarify.

It’s not a question or an offer. It’s a statement. And while you never questioned your orders, the Crystal Exarch was most certainly entitled to. You wait for him to demur, to retreat to the cold safety of his Tower. Hold your breath against the impending disappointment.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he draws up a chair, the wood groaning its exhaustion, and takes a seat beside you. Too close for friends, too far away for lovers. Your shoulders brush and a thrill of fire shudders down your spine.

Light’s wings beat in your ears. 

His smile grows sweeter, an uncouth, youthful stretch across his face so rare and valuable you yearn to preserve it in a museum, under lock and key so you could turn your face towards it when you forgot what it was to feel joy.

“I would.” 


	15. kintsugi.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _“I apologize for everything,” he rasps. “I am not proud of my conduct. I violated your trust on every level.”_
>> 
>> _“There was fault on both sides,” she insists, then smiles wryly at him. “Not everything can be your fault, Exarch.”_
> 
> No new CWs apply. 

_"like a heathen clung to the homily  
_ _let the reason come on the common tongue  
_ _of your loving me."  
_ _|| moment’s silence (common tongue) — hozier ||_

* * *

He had never tasted _joie_ ; it seemed a miserable drink to Raha, one of poorly recalled nostalgia and pain for the sake of it. She tells him she can barely taste it and he endeavors to suffer it for her, taking a pull from the dusty bottleneck. He feels his face contort into complete rejection as the fire burns down his throat. He watches in awe as she takes two whole swallows without so much as a fuss, easily as downing wine. 

The Crystarium is deep in slumber. No one idles in the streets; only the occasional shuffle of chainmail can be heard as a guard makes their rounds. The barkeep has made his exit, all the chairs dutifully upside-down on the tables save for theirs. 

The Wandering Stairs is one of the locales most foreign to the Exarch. It is a place meant for congregation, for late-night conversations and celebrations woven together with good drink and intimacy. It had been the first “frivolous” thing the Crystarium built, one he had initially been skeptical of. But it was as necessary as any of the greenhouses or amaro stables; hope is a precious, fleeting thing, and while alcohol certainly could not instigate it, it could mimic it. 

Nothing about him fit in here, and even if he tried, the bizarre, terse formality betokening his title would stifle any conversation. 

But if he wanted to drown his sorrows with anyone, it would surely be her. She who knew him the most, who had peered deeper into his hidden crevices more than anyone before, more than anyone _would._

She who did not know how numbered his days were. 

How she had numbered them the moment he saw her in Urth’s Gift.

She claims sobriety, but her body says otherwise. Her head lolls against his shoulder, her hand finding its way into his lap, splaying across his thigh, innocent and friendly. Doubtless if any saw, the Crystarium’s rumor mill would know no sleep. It is the first moment they had spent together without secrecy, and he treasures each of her sad, small smiles; he finds a sliver of bravery in himself and drapes an arm around the back of her chair. She cuddles closer to him, the warmth of her body so precious and valuable. 

“What do you do,” she murmurs, “when you can’t sleep?” 

It is a simple question, and she doesn’t realize the implications of that which she asked. 

He hasn’t slept in almost a year.

There is no harm in explaining such a thing to her, but she did not know the extent of his parasitic relationship with the Tower, and something in him—perhaps the Tower’s influence itself—refused to answer so easily.

“I think on… easier times,” he says slowly, “times in which I was a younger man, a different person.” His crystal hand drums against the cup, ringing out through the silence. He watches a Crystarium guard march from one end of the Exedra from the next. Wonders where Lyna is at this time of night. “The troubles of Norvrandt are cold bedfellows indeed.” 

“I am usually far too exhausted to have insomnia,” she laughs bitterly. “Thank you, for taking pity on me.”

She takes another drink of the infernal _joie_ before passing the bottle back to him. “When’s the last time you’ve shared a drink with someone like this, Exarch?” 

The memory takes him so swiftly it rips the breath straight out of his lungs.

_He knew it an impossible feat, but gravity itself centered around her. Her razor sharp smile, the cold kindness glinting in her eyes, the way she cleaves her enemies, flesh parting like silk—the constellations of her galaxy._

_He had fallen in love with her and she was a touch of holiness so far above such earthly matters._

_There was satisfaction in loving without hope of reciprocation. Picking open a scab, clenching down on a rotten tooth, nudging a faded bruise. Just to ensure the pain is still there, furious and alive._

_“There’s only one tankard left,” she had smiled at him. The smoldering fire rendered her resplendent, shadows chiaroscuro across her features. Their compatriots settled down into well-deserved slumber, for tomorrow they would seize the Tower, as much as such a thing might be tamed. “Would you like to share?”_

_“I’d be happy to,” came his stammer._

_Boyish. Immature._

_He thought of a million ways to rephrase this for fifty years._

_She took a long drought with the flourish of a pirate before passing it to him. Their fingers brushed; levin leaps under his skin at the touch of her bare skin on his._

_I love you, even if you are far, far too good for me. Because you are too good._

_He drank deep in holy communion with her, and swore he tasted a touch of stardust on his tongue._

“A long time ago,” he admits, banishing the painful memories away before they could undo him. “Forgive my asking, Warrior, but… surely you would be better suited to drinking with any of the Scions. Do you… not find comfort with your companions?”

Her laugh is acidic and bitter, spoiled grapes in her mouth. “Tell me, why would I be drinking with a man whose face is all but a mystery to me if I could be with anyone else?”

He falls silent, the breath ripped clean out of his lungs.

“Do you… feel isolated from them?” He asks softly. 

She nods, frowns, then shrugs. “Yes and no. Yes—they worry over me, and yet I don’t know if they see me truly for me. They see my condition, my value, but not…”

“Not you, the person,” he breathes. 

She nods. “Although,” and she glances surreptitiously up at him beneath her lashes, “I might argue _current_ company is not exempt.”

He calls her name gently. Rubs slow, soothing circles into her shoulder with his thumb, delights in how she relaxes against him.

“I shouldn’t have—“ he struggles on his words, before realizing he had far too much to apologize for. “I have made a lot of mistakes, with you.” 

“I’ve said it before, no meaningful agreement can be reached without—“

“—I cannot tell you everything,” he interrupts, _needing_ her to listen, to hear his case out, “not yet. But know that I have my reasons, and when it is no longer necessary to conceal such things, I will bare my all.”

He speaks almost as if he believes he’ll live long enough to be able to tell her everything.

She nods, slowly. “I apologize for my behavior, the other night,” she murmurs. “I… rather than _telling_ you I was angry with you, I reacted. I pushed you. I knew you would react strongly, and I can hardly blame you for what you did.” 

“I apologize for everything,” he rasps. “I am not proud of my conduct. I violated your trust on every level.” 

“There was fault on both sides,” she insists, then smiles wryly at him. “Not everything can be your fault, Exarch.” 

She leans fully against him, her hair spilling over her shoulder. She slips her hand beneath the table, tangles it in his. 

The easy, careless movements of familiarity. 

He turns to her, holding his breath. Fearful of breaking the reverie. He raises a slow, cautious hand—the crystal one, rough-hewn and trembling—catching a lock of hair in front of her face. He brushes it to the side and lingers, far, far too long on the curve of her cheekbone, the swell of her cheek, down the cant of her jaw to the column of her neck, ghosting over the staccato of her pulse. 

Dawn threatens to burst forth, the sky traversing from depthless black to deep indigo.

Her eyes open slowly, lazily.

“Kiss me,” she breathes. 

The Crystarium sleeps undisturbed under the watchful gaze of the Tower.

Raha doesn’t think about consequence. His mind, for once, is blissfully empty.

He is a young man beneath the yawning abyss of the stars, and she is a young woman who commands his heart. 

His hand lingers at her shoulder as he brings her close, and slowly, carefully, as if the smallest movement would awaken chaos once more, he treats it with the tenderness their first kiss deserved, slanting his lips over hers. 

She tastes like bottled levin and juniper. She sighs against his lips, leaning into him. 

He was falling, but he couldn’t find it in himself to stop himself. 

* * *

It doesn’t require any coaxing to lure him to your chambers. He follows you as if it is as natural as breathing, keeping in pace with your slow steps as you make your way back to the Pendants. The innkeep inclines his head politely to the Exarch, and as the gods were fortunate, keeps his silence when the Exarch follows you inside. 

Every other time you had met, you had always had a plan—a certain expectation for what might occur. 

You had none—no plan, no particularly nagging desires—

Just him and his quiet, calm presence. 

You can feel his eyes on you as you strip your clothes, leaving only your undertunic as you pull him over to the bed.

“I won’t undress you,” you promise, “but I would like, for once, the privilege of touching you.”

He acquiesces with a quiet nod, holding his hands palm-upwards in his lap.

Surrendering himself to you.

_Trusting_ you with his secrets.

He makes no move to resist as you trail tentative fingers over his lips, the noble slope of his nose, the cant of his cheeks. You slide down his neck, lingering on the cross-section of bare flesh, feeling his apple roll beneath the skin as he swallows, the heady thrum of his pulse even through the impenetrable crystal.

He makes a soft noise when you come down to his shoulders, smoothing your hands over them, flattening your palms on his broad chest. 

“How do you feel?” You ask gently. 

His voice is frayed. “Vulnerable,” he admits.

You press a gentle kiss on his parted lips. 

He lets it happen, only reciprocating in the mildest of ways.

No fires ignite. No lingering taste of desperation on his lips.

Only the low, cool burn you had felt all the while. 

Your slide trembling hands down his arms, marveling at the feel of the muscle beneath your fingers, corded and stout. Magician though he was, there was no weakness to be found.

And then, you slide your hands into his. 

Your hands have never stopped moving since you were young. There is always more work to be done, more deeds to be wrought and lives to be saved and your hands took refuge in the sacred act of staying occupied. 

It feels unknown and alien to allow your hands to quiet in his, silent and contemplative in the absence of sleep.

You decide instead to busy yourself with taking advantage of the vulnerability the Exarch has given you. Trailing tentative fingertips over the worn leather armbands, curious at their meanings, their functionality, if any at all. You ask him as much and he tells you they were the traditional garb worn by ancient Allagan custodians, the arm bands aiding in channeling aether when necessary. “They are as much as part of me as anything,” he chuckles when you try to divest him of his arraignment, tugging fruitlessly at the worn leather strips. 

So you move to his right, to the world of cerulean and gilded details—the term _kintsugi_ comes to mind, looking at the aureate veins. It was an art Gosetsu had so kindly taught you about, the Doman way of bringing beauty to that which had been broken, not in _spite_ of its damage, but _because_ of it.

As the old samurai had spoken, he had looked to Tsuyu, and the meaning behind his words was not lost on you. 

You lose yourself from the wild eddies of his crystal hand, trailing up to his chest again, fumbling with the fastens on his robes. 

Waiting for him to raise his hands to stop you.

The Exarch merely watches you, breathing quickening. 

Your fingers tremble over the gilded detailing, parting the robes. You reveal ilms and ilms of crystallized skin, the same _kintsugi_ lines running wild, all tracing back to his heart, the origin of it all.

“When…” You swallow, finding your mouth dry, “was it always like this, or did it… grow?” 

Your hands settle over his heart.

He raises a hand, covering yours.

“It grew,” he whispers, “still even now.”

“Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head, reaching up to brush your hair from your face before cupping your jaw. “Not anymore,” he murmurs, before pulling you to him.

The kiss is indolent, languid, contemplative. It feels like kissing for the first time, especially coming on the heels of so much chaos and violence between the two of you. He cups your face in both his hands, sweeping his thumbs over your cheeks. 

You sigh against his mouth. 

He moves upward, tangling his fingers in your hair, carding through it. You shudder at the touch, humming your pleasure when his crystal hand slides down to your neck. He touches you as if you are fragile, quick to startle. 

Something treasured. 

You slide your hands over his chest again, noting how he stiffens at the contact. “S’okay?” you mumble. 

He nods, pulling away for a moment. “This feels…”

“Different?” You prompt. 

He nods, sighing. “Far different.”

“If you wish to cease—"

“I don’t,” he says quickly, rushed, punctuating it with a kiss. “Doubtless you know my fears in the face of such a thing.”

You settle your hands in his lap. “Exarch,” you say softly, peering up, “has there… been anything in particular you’ve wanted to try?”

He makes a breathy laugh. “You have given me I could have ever asked for, I couldn’t—“

You cock your head. “You told me we had only attempted a _fraction_ of what you would desire.” You drag your nails up his chest, delighting in the way he shudders beneath you. “You’ve lived a long life—surely there is _something_ I could do for you.”

“I would—Warrior, my desires are not of any consequence, what I desire is for you—“

You dig your nails in and he stiffens, falling silent. “Be selfish,” you whisper, “for once in your life, Exarch, let someone else take care of you.” 

He swallows audibly, what little you could see of his face turning scarlet. “I… well, perhaps there is… _one_ thing I would… entertain attempting with you.”

You come nose-to-nose with him, smirking at his sharp intake of breath. 

“Tell me.”

* * *

It is a torture like no other, to be touched and spoken to like this from her. Perhaps it is precisely that which gives him the courage to speak such a thing to her. He acts before his conscience can find him out, tilting her head to the side and whispering, furious and quick into her ear. 

Her eyes _darken_ when he pulls away, a strange glimmer to them—a fiery determination not unlike when she stole into his office.

And not wholly dissimilar from when she prepared for battle.

“Who knew you would desire such filthy things, my lord?” she breathes, and while it was a title he detested, one he had long since given up correcting—

From her, _oh._

He would hear it spilling from her lips any way she would allow. 

The Warrior arranges him so his legs are off the bed and she sinks to her knees between them. She slides her hands up his calves, his knees, halting at his thighs—gods, even _this_ alone was enough to turn him into a raving madman for her.

He makes one last feeble attempt to dissuade her. “This need not—there is no debt between us, you have already—“

“Exarch.” It is a command, soft but firm. “Let me give you even part of what you’ve so selflessly given me these past few weeks.” 

She rucks up his robes to his hips, hooking her fingers into his smalls.

“It would be my pleasure, too,” she whispers. 

He makes a stiff nod, the breath leaving him a wild, shuddering gasp as she slips off his smalls, leaving him bare. 

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, shifting from resting them on his knees, her hair, to leaning back on them. He feels painfully _vulnerable_ in front of her, stifling a groan as she encircles his length with her hand, pumping experimentally. 

She can barely fit her hand around him, and guilty with contrition as he is, he cannot look away from the sight of it, can scarcely conceal the ragged moan that leaves him.

Her eyes never leave his as she works, bending down to lick a long, scorching stripe up his underside, smirking like a succubus when he grates out her name, face contorting as he struggles to steel himself. She had barely touched him and he was already _so_ close—

And then she takes him into her mouth. 

In so many ways, she had been his first, and she was in this too. It feels so _different_ from everything else—blessedly warm and _so_ slick, her tongue laving the head of him. He _feels_ her hum around him and the vibration rattles him to his very core. 

He wants desperately to thrust up into her, to lose himself so completely in this moment, but he forces himself to stay perfectly still, struggling to even his ragged breathing.

She comes off him then, sitting back on her heels to look up at him. The sight of her on her knees before him—

Rarely had she ever looked so splendid, so ravishing.

“Exarch,” she calls gently.

Speech was passing difficult. “Y-Yes?” 

“Have you considered relaxing?” She teases. “You’re very tense.”

He sighs. “I— I apologize, I am— _unused_ to letting go of…”

“Control,” she says gently. She rubs slow circles into the taut muscle of his thigh—a motion likely meant to soothe which only inflamed him further. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He laughs breathlessly. “You are threatening to _break_ me with this, you are— _beyond_ words, I—“

She leans forward again, settling between his knees once more before pulling off her tunic in one smooth movement. She was bare before him, clad only in her smalls. “I want to do this for you,” she assures him. “All I ask is that you _allow_ yourself to enjoy this.”

He sighs, shifting. “I… I will try.” 

She fixes him with a wry grin as she strokes his cock, so hard now it was nearly painful. “To watch you lose yourself entirely would be a pleasure unto its own,” she purrs.

He shudders at the very thought.

He is still a mess of nerves when she bows her head over him again—but he wills himself to do steady himself, for _her_ if nothing else. She urges him on with a slow, languid pace—there is no rush to it, and yet he can still feel how close he is. He forces himself to look ahead, counting stones in the wall, _anything_ to keep himself from coming in her mouth.

And then, she adjusts before drawing forward to take him deeper—

He feels himself hit the back of her throat and he hisses as if burned. 

“ _Ahh—!_ Warrior—“ he pants, tangling both hands in her hair, his hips tilting upwards—she feels _impossibly_ good, he was threatening to lose himself—

She quickens her pace, and it is _sublime,_ frictionless, and he can’t help but thrust upwards into her, driving himself ilms deeper into her—he feels her struggle for a moment when she tries to hilt him, and _that_ sets his head spinning like nothing else.

“You feel,” he pants, licking his lips, “so— _fucking_ —“

She stills, coming off him with a gasp, and then—

She sits up, bringing his cock between the valley of her pert breasts. The Exarch cannot help but reach out to palm them, watching her dusky nipples harden at his touch, treasuring her soft shudder.

The sight alone is impossibly erotic, a vision from his most rampant of dreams come to life, and he feels the fragile grip he had on his self-control loosening. 

Still slick, she slides him between her breasts, cupping them and bringing them tight around him. She is so soft, so _warm—_ he moves slowly, fascinated by the sight of his cock disappearing between her breasts, then sliding upwards, brushing her bottom lip—she favors him with a lick and he begins to move in earnest, his hand in her hair growing tighter—

Never, even consumed by a long-delayed heat, did he feel pure, burning _need_ consume him so entirely.

All thought leaves him, consciousness dissipating, chasing only the inferno building in him. His pace grows wild, hips stuttering up into her breasts. He finds himself speaking without thinking, filthy words falling from his lips before he can stop himself. “Can’t believe how good you are for me,” he cradles her face, crystal reflecting in the dim light, sliding his thumb between her parted lips, “letting me fuck your pretty tits—“

“Come on them,” she purrs around his finger, “make me _yours—“_

_Oh,_ there was nothing he wanted more in this moment than that. 

He wanted to savor this but he was simply beyond it, entirely unable to help himself from fucking into her, the need to own, to _take_ spurring him into a fervor. 

And then he breaks—vision fading into starbursts, wholly consumed with something like euphoria as a wild, mangled grown leaving him as his spend splatters on her breasts, her lips, her neck. She whispers soft assurances, licking the seed on her bottom lip with a slow swipe of her tongue. 

“ _Fuck,”_ he pants—she is a mesmerizing sight, covered in his cum, _marked_ by him. He lets himself look a moment longer, attempting to commit the vision of her flushed and debauched on her knees with that self-satisfied smirk to memory before he comes to his feet, knees trembling as he prepares a rag for her. 

“I can—“

“I beg of you, allow me,” he laughs breathlessly, leaning down to wipe her clean. He kisses her thoroughly, tasting _himself_ on her. Her arms come around his neck, sighing into him—

He lifts her up and into his arms easily, pulling her onto the bed. He is filled with an entirely different sort of need now—he needs to make _her_ come undone, to serve her in any way she would allow.

“I want to— _please_ let me have you, I want to—“

“I’m yours, I’m yours,” she whispers in a rush, cradling his face.

_I’m yours._

She lets him pin her to the bed—he doesn’t bother binding her, kissing down her bare body in a rush, tasting the salt of _him_ lingering on her, before settling between her thighs, sighing as he kisses the soft, tender flesh—there was something so _right_ in it, something—

Something that felt like belonging. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you might recognize portions of this from "ultracrepidarian" in refulgence! well, what of it. sometimes you nail things in one shot lol.  
> we're in the final stretch! it feels crazy to know i'm almost done with this haha. thank you for coming along with me. 🖤


	16. shadow and soul.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _He glances up at you, grinning as if sharing an inside joke._
>> 
>> _Vauthry had nothing on the insidiousness of this man._
>> 
>> _He was going to be the death of you._
> 
> CWs from here-on-out for canon-typical mild suicidal ideation. (three guesses who.) 

_“i love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
_ _in secret,  
_ _between the shadow and the soul.”  
_ || pablo neruda ||

* * *

Raha takes care of her, like he always does. Brews lavender tea and neatens her bed before tucking her in, sitting at her bedside and stroking her hair as she dozes. 

But this time, where before he would have departed, he finds himself lingering.

The Crystarium is silent and slumbering in the bells just before break of day—the _witching_ hour, Vrandtic myths called it.

Raha feels not a little bewitched this night.

He draws out the tangle of her hair, teasing out the locks until they lay across his leg, shimmering and silken. Watches her breathing fall even and deep, the tiny muscles in her slackened face twitching from dreams.

He cannot think of a moment his love for her has ever ached so dearly.

He tells himself he’ll move—any moment now. But perhaps he finally feels the toll of all his years, because Raha cannot bring himself to leave. She nuzzles deeper into his lap, making a small sound of contentment as he watches her with fondness so dear it throbs like an ill-tended wound, tracing gentle crystal fingers across the features of her face, wondering what in all these stars had allowed him to be with her like this.

Unless something went terribly wrong or right, this would be the last moment he’d be able to steal from her. 

That faulty logic is how he justifies staying.

He knows the time and nature of his death. And he frequently wonders what last thing he would think of when he goes into the void, turning into a Lightwarden who would starve to death. 

What would he think of? Would he look back on all his deeds and pray they were enough? Would he remember what he was like as a young man, brave with too-big mismatched eyes in a world primed for cruelty?

Or perhaps he would remember the indomitable Ironworks and The Sons of Saint Coinach, taking apart the tower, piece by piece—Cid and Nero’s life’s work made manifest.

Or perhaps he would remember Lyna—the frightened kit who fit so easily into his arms then, all huge ears and wide lilac eyes set amidst a mess of wild silver curls like hoarfrost clinging to grapevines. How strange it felt to take care of her; to have a child running around the tomb-like Crystal Tower, laughing and squealing as he gave chase, raging dramatically at him when he teleported to just the spot she’d hid away in.

The Viis live longer than most. He almost hoped this would mean he’d have more time with her as a child, but she moved through adolescence at the same rate as the others, albeit always being at the top of her growth charts. She constantly needed new boots and clothes refitted to account for how quickly she was gaining height. She surpassed him on her fifteenth nameday with no signs of stopping.

For the nature of his duty, there were many pleasant memories to be found beneath the terrariums of the Crystarium, and if he was to leave his city for the final time, he would dearly miss it. The vibrant souls of the Mean who wouldn’t let a calamity get in the way of their inventive new machinations or clever solutions. The constant flood of travelers, eager to become what they must in the face of unimaginable hardship.

Countless meals shared in these halls—on the rafters, in the lavender fields of Lakeland, in the orchard garden beneath the next bounty of fruit.

And it wasn’t that he was displeased with his life’s work so much as he didn’t dwell on his deeds. Surviving a Calamity, leaping between the rift on the wings of time itself—certainly achievements, but none he would rest his laurels on.

Cid and Nero, in their own argumentative way, had always claimed that title.

No, he was far more interested in what was before him now.

A young woman he had known some time ago, who had undergone such trials none could believe, and she had always, no matter the odds, no matter the strife, came out indomitable.

He watches the Warrior sleep and tries to memorize the sound of her breathing, the slope of her nose, the swell of her cheeks. The elusive fragrance of her, nostalgic and foreign in the same notes. 

If he had no other memory to take with him into the Rift, he would remember her—would remember _this_ moment.

When the room begins to lighten, the sun not quite over the horizon yet, he makes his escape.He presses lingering kisses on her forehead, her nose, her upturned cheek. Gentle enough not to disturb her. 

_I’m yours,_ he remembers her saying as he closes the door behind him for the final time.

Would that she had not given herself so thoughtlessly to a man with numbered days.

The early-risers of the Crystarium are stirring. Yawning guards perform watch turnover in the Exedra; the culinarians prepare enough breakfast to perfume the city entire and feed several armies; the artisans of the Crystalline Mean light forges, thread looms, discuss recipes.

If he lingers any longer, the Exarch fears he will never be able to commit himself to his work again, and so he exiles himself to the Tower before he can reconsider. 

It is a lost cause, anyway. Even with a freezing bath, he is sorely pressed to collect his mind into any state of calm. Only a quiet, sickening despair settles deep in his belly. He whiles away the bells wandering the Tower, ensuring rooms which would need to be forever locked are secure. He finds himself remembering the sight of her bolting up the gilded stairs, so much younger and freer. 

Now, more than ever, he finds himself looking back on those halcyon times when he should only be looking forward—however brief those moments will be. 

The Scions file into the Ocular in the late morning. Everything necessary for their departure has already been made; it is only a matter of bidding them farewell.

But as he ever does, Garlemald’s former emperor cannot help but snarl his plans.

“Oh, Exarch,” Emet-Selch croons haughtily. “A moment of your time, if you would.”

The Exarch grits his teeth, watching the quickly departing backs of the Scions, shoulders squared for the impending battle. “It appears I have no other choice but to indulge you.”

“I was doing some pondering, on your little… _quandary,”_ he drawls, his mouth twisting into a grin. “Oh, not you and the Warrior—no, that’s terribly boring in comparison to the puzzle that is your claim to the Tower.”

“You see, I know _some_ of the Allagans.” A deliberate understatement, and he waves a hand to dismiss an entire chronology of history. “It was give or take ten thousand years ago, and my memory goes a little fuzzy. But what I do remember is that only one of the Allagan line—and not just any bloodline, but _the_ royal bloodline—could even hope to command the Tower.”

Emet-Selch crosses his arms. “Either the Allagans crossed the Rift themselves and left some of their own running around here, or you came from the very same homeland as the Warrior and the Scions.”

“Well deduced,” The Exarch says dryly. 

Emet-Selch’s golden eyes dance. “I thought so myself. But you don’t seem to have any intention of humoring me with an answer, do you?”

His mouth twists in a bitter smirk. “Not in the faintest.”

“Ha!” He barks. “Good. It would only be too easy. You’re not one to blab about your grandiose plans, not like Lahabrea or Nabriales. No, you play with your cards very close to your chest—but I have a suspicion that someone sitting next to you has caught a glance at your hand.”

“I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning,” the Exarch lies. 

“Surely—surely _she_ must know, after all you two have been nigh inseparable—“

Perhaps something on the Exarch’s face gives him away, for Emet-Selch’s eyes widen, a cackle slipping through. An ugly, rough sound; a glimpse of the monster within. 

“ _No?_ Even her? After everything you’ve been through?” He stares at the Exarch incredulously.

The Exarch looks away, feeling his cheeks warm with embarrassment. She had every right to know—but that knowledge was a poison. And they were past the point of return on such admissions.

“Oh… now _that_ is interesting indeed! Playing the Warrior’s heart like a fiddle! You know,” He takes a step forward, the smile on his face growing more heartless as he draws closer, towering over the Exarch, “they have called _me_ the villain, but the true jackal has been warming the Warrior’s bed.”

“You and I are nothing alike, Emet-Selch,” he snaps, drawing himself higher. He was all too-used to being domineered, and would not give the Ascian the satisfaction of seeing him balk. “My reasons are my own, and I do not expect I need to explain myself to an _Ascian_ of all people.”

“You won’t have to explain yourself to me,” Emet-Selch agrees, “but once the Scions find out—or gods forbid, your precious Warrior—I imagine they will be sorely wanting an explanation for all the ways you’ve lied to them.”

_You assume I’ll live long enough to be held accountable to such things._

The Exarch bites his tongue.

Emet-Selch gives him a last mocking bow, before waving his hand and departing, leaving the Exarch with a century’s worth of guilt weighing heavier than ever on his very soul.

Urianger ferries word back to the Exarch through their linkpearl (a pair left from the Calamity’s Ironworks, jerry-rigged for the First’s particular aetherial currents) on the assault on Eulmore. The citizens are under some manner of bewitchment, the cause being the meol they had been fed for decades.

The very thought makes the Exarch’s insides roil.

And at the heart of the matter was Vauthry himself—Norvrandt’s final Lightwarden.

When Urianger tells him construction on the Ladder was underway, he can delay it no longer.

The chilling ring of destiny beckons him forward. 

He does not say goodbye to Lyna—instead, along with the small novel of notes on his desk, he leaves a sealed letter addressed to her. It explained everything he could not say, all those unspoken questions answered, even if his absence left a hundred more in his wake.

They say the terminally ill always feel their best just before death. As if their very lifeforce was giving them a second lease on life, one last chance to experience the breadth of life before they left the mortal coil.

Raha had never felt more himself than now.

He had wagered it would be more difficult than simply storming Eulmore to handle Vauthry—and he was correct. Thus after visiting the City of Final Pleasures, only to find it devoid of nearly all her residents, he ventured onward to the Ladder. 

He wrestled with himself, as he ascended the rattling machination. Would it be more prudent to keep his distance, lest he risk giving away the game one last time, or could he allow himself one more indulgence? 

One last sin before purification through death. 

He had always puzzled over the title of _sinner_ in his time on the First. Eorzean religions did not describe wrong-doings in such black-and-white terms; the gods themselves had a certain aloof manner. One’s path in life was determined through deeds, through heroism and altruism, rather than on quantifiable sins.

Ishgard held itself to different standards, brought about by long years of isolation and bigotry. Sins and character flaws were reviled. They were to be overcome, to be pontificated and torn asunder in the constant search for piety. 

But Vrandtic religion, disassembled by the Flood, turned from the Light and instead hallowed the dark. And thus it became a term of endearment, to be a sinner. 

To be naught but human. 

Raha had never been comfortable with such ideas. None in the Crystarium verged on the profane debauchery of Eulmore, but everyone took what they could, so long as it harmed no one else. Loved who they would without reservation, for it was just as likely for one’s consort to be murdered upon the morrow in a twist of fate. 

The Crystal Exarch had never allowed himself such things. He simply had to be more. He had to hold himself to higher standards: he had to transcend his own humanity in the process.

But he forgot about the crystal enfolding on him—and all his lofty ideals—when he was with her. 

As the living embodiment of all he had worked so ceaselessly for, she graces him with these small indulgences. 

He allows himself to entertain his fantasies of youth. To believe in that halcyon dream of adventuring with her. The sword has never been closer to his neck, and perhaps that brings a fecklessness out in him he thought long-buried.

If she notices his oddness, she does not comment on it.

But perhaps she herself is surrendering in a way to that which lay between them. She is nigh doting on him with her smiles, her jokes.

In one last blessing, Urianger Augurlet takes upon himself the duty of rallying the Crystarium to aid in the construction of the Talos. It had not been discussed in any of their plans. 

But Raha knows a boon when he sees one, and Urianger’s eyes glimmer with kindness when he wishes them farewell.

And so they are alone, in a way. And it is all too easy to fantasize that he indeed had made his dreams manifest—that they would never part ways, their journey continuing on neverending.

Perhaps, one last time, Raha can indulge himself in this misbegotten dream. 

* * *

The Crystal Exarch may have ascended the newly repaired Ladder, but to you, he felt a different person entirely. Certainly not the same man you had left in the Crystarium.

And not quite the same man who visited you under the dark of night.

There had ever been a thread of reservation in the man. Regardless of what you had shared together over the past weeks, there were places you could not go together. Questions that could not be asked, answers he would never willingly give. And while you had repaired things—as much as they could be—you knew there would ever be a strangeness in your relationship, walls erected by virtue of his myriad deceptions.

And yet, bathed in the everlasting Light, the Exarch feels like a man who has lost the last of his reservations.

And he was _beautiful_ for it.

You know you are done for, when he tips his head back and laughs at Chai-Nuzz’s bewildered words. A wild bark, unfettered and noisome such as you had only heard when surprised into it. Even Chai-Nuzz himself seems surprised at it, your open-mouthed stare going without comment.

It sends shivers down your spine, your stomach strange and fluttering, as if a porxie had elected to call it home.

It warms all the fractured, frayed edges of your heart, brilliant as a fire in the coldest of Ishgardian nights.

Conversation flows easily between the two of you as you hike through the upper levels of Kholusia. He keeps up with you, sometimes relying upon his staff for support, but there was an energy to him. A liveliness you had never before seen -- one you had only chanced mere glimpses at when you were lost in the touch of one another.

If you didn’t know better, he seemed…

_Happy._

“I’ve never seen plantlife like this,” You murmur to yourself. Stark against the desolate wasteland, the plants are vibrant oranges and wild purples, more fitting for the tropical soils of Costa del Sol or the volcanic islands within the Ruby Sea. “How on earth did they survive the Flood?”

“To the very top of Mt. Gulg, these lands were underwater for millennia,” the Exarch comments. He speaks with that familiar air of authority, but there is a tenderness in his words. “The waters only receded after the Flood of Light, the ocean evaporating from the sheer amount of aether. ’Tis the reason you can find seashells all the way up here, and the fossils embedded in the caves—what were once the caves of the ocean, housing all manner of wavekin. You can find plants such as these on the ocean floor in the depths of the Tempest.”

“Oh.” You blink. “Shouldn’t they need a great deal more water to survive, then?”

“Notice the fibrous stems—they can hold water for quite a long time. And I suspect the plants have simply adapted to their new biome. ’Tis a testament to the resilience of life—as much a reflection of the strength of Norvrandt’s people in the face of so much hardship.”

The Exarch casts his gaze upward to the towering figure of Mt. Gulg and the godrays blessing its apex. Vauthry’s denizens swarm the crest.

“You always surprise me, with the knowledge you hoard,” you say gently.

He turns back to you, mouth open in surprise.

“Well,” he stammers, abashed, “a leader should understand the lands as well as the people, for the environment often explains the curiosities of a civilization’s way of living.”

You laugh. “You remind me of someone—a historian I once knew.”

“A historian?”

You nod, heat rushing to your face unbidden. “He specialized in Allagan culture. We… well, we’ve discussed him before.”

A look of knowing flashes across his features. The Exarch squares his shoulders, following the well-worn, dusty path to Tomra. “A lucky man, to be remembered so fondly by one such as you.”

_Lucky…?_

You wonder at why he would say such a thing—

And wonder why you found your heart unbearably _warmed_ by such an admission.

Could it be…

The realization startles you into silence. You find yourself staring at him while he speaks to Chief Xamott, puzzling over his warm smile, the relaxed nature of his shoulders, his body wiry and energetic. 

“Warrior?” he cocks his head at you. “Are you quite alright?”

“Oh!” you blush. Apparently you had missed some manner of prompting in your reverie. “I… I’m fine, simply… lost in my own thoughts.”

“Typical long-leg with their head in the clouds,” Chief Xamott huffs dismissively. 

The Exarch lingers on you for a moment longer before following the dwarf into the village. You lag behind, heart racing staccato in your throat.

It was something which had been there all along, but you could no longer deny it.

And the veracity of it is blinding in its brilliance.

He was happy, and nothing had ever made _you_ so happy. 

That small, quiet realization lingers with you. Lingers in your mind as the dwarves teach you their strange salute, as they puzzle over these strange “long-legs” (they had heard of the Exarch, but held his title with little regard) and offer you espresso con panna in cups that only held a mere swallowful. 

In a moment of impish impulsiveness, you aim one of the pebbles at him during your slingshot challenge, scarcely stifling your laughter as he whipped back at you in irritation, looking every ilm a harassed grandfather.

The two of you are tasked with escorting young Korutt to the Duergar’s Tewel, and the dwarf is full to the brim of questions about the two of you. He holds a curiosity for the outside world and seems to deem you two the heroes of it. As such, he wanted every question answered, every story unveiled.

Korutt isn’t filled with the superstitious secretiveness of the Crystarium. He asks his myriad questions directly without preamble, and that uncanny openness seems to prompt the Exarch into speaking more than usual. You ache to hear every sliver of truth that gives way.

There is a grace in the way you two fight off the sin eaters together. Just as it had been in Holminster Switch, he is attuned to your every movement, your every unspoken stratagem. One moment blocking an oncoming attack with his refulgent shield, the next casting a radiant fireball with more finesse than perhaps even Y’shtola herself. He flashes you a blinding, crooked smile when you cleave through one such sin eater, and gods, it set your heart _racing_ to see it.

None of the profane acts you had carried out together in the dark drove you quite so mad as his easy, youthful grin, untouched by the ravages of time or guilt.

“I don’t know much about fighting,” Korutt pipes up once you beat back an onslaught of sin eaters, the silence restored once more, “but you two make a great team!” 

You blush to the very tips of your ears at his words. 

“The Warrior is a team unto herself,” The Exarch shrugs, ever eager to disregard flattery. He cranes his neck, eliciting a _pop_ from the joint. “I merely follow her lead.” 

“Well, it looks as if you’ve been doing this for years to me!”

You stare at one another, the Exarch adjusting his grip on his aetherial sword. 

He seems well and truly _stunned_ at young Korutt’s words.

“… Is that so?” he murmurs, contemplative. “I… I shall take that as a compliment.” 

“Um… did I say the wrong thing?” Korutt looks between the two of you, rubbing his arms. 

The Exarch smiles reassuringly at him. How was he so full of these smiles? Where had they been all this time? “Not at all. Your words are most heartening. Indeed, I feel like a young man again.” He glances up at you, grinning as if sharing an inside joke.

Vauthry had nothing on the insidiousness of this man.

He was going to be the death of you.

“You talk as if you’re old!” Korutt laughs. “How long have you two known each other, anyway?” 

The Exarch looks away then, as if embarrassed. “Well…” 

You lean forward, eager to hear whatever explanation he may have—but he is saved the burden of honesty by yet another sin eater attack, and Korutt forgets his questions.

But you do not.

Why had he answered so? Was he embarrassed to explain that which had passed between the two of you these past few weeks together?

Captain Lyna’s words, as they had ever, spring to the forefront of your mind. 

_“Once, I pressed him on who he loved so dearly, for I knew there must be someone, their identity as much a mystery as his. A girl, he told me, one he had met long, long ago.”_

If you had truly met before… 

And if he was truly who you suspected…

Perhaps had things played out differently, you would have flown into a fury at the idea that the man before you was truly G’raha Tia in disguise. That you had been deceived and lied to time and time again.

But even if that were true—and it would require a fantastical explanation if it was true—

—You cannot find any venom in you. 

For he commanded your heart, no matter who he truly was.

Deep in the sulfuric air of the Duergar’s Tewel, you find yourself thinking less and less of the task at hand, or even the daunting task of slaughtering the Lightwarden, and instead on what would come to pass _after._

After all was said and done, the Calamity averted, the flows of time restored to ensure a doomed timeline would never come to pass. 

You did not worry about returning to the Source—although that was something which weighed heavily upon your heart.

What would happen with you and the Exarch? Would you be able to finally speak freely, not as strangers or fetishists, but—

… as _friends?_

You rarely had a say in how events came to pass. So often they were wholly out of your control, plans made and then unraveled within the same breath. If you commanded destiny, you certainly did not hold the reins to your own.

But if you could ask Hydaelyn for anything, it would be able to speak with the Exarch.

No blindfolds, no ropes. No cowls or titles. To speak frankly as two friends without the weight of the stars on your shoulders. 

Out of everything you had ever desired, _this_ felt the most impossible to ask for. 

Perhaps the Exarch’s happiness has a cost after all—nothing so valuable could ever come freely. He staggers backward under the weight of his own exhaustion, stopped from falling only by your arms coming hard around him. Beneath the corded muscle, you can feel his labored breathing.

“My thanks,” he breathes—he sounds so unfathomably _tired._ “It seems I… overestimated myself.”

“You need to rest,” you chasten. “You’re like to run yourself ragged at this rate.”

“It is nothing, I can take the earthseed—“

“I have an idea!” Korutt proclaims. He gestures to the bag of earthseed, nearly as tall as him. “This could use some refining before it goes into the Talos—ensure the aether moves freely and all that. Likely it’ll take the rest of the night—so, come back to Tomra in the morning and pick it up.”

The Exarch frowns. “It may not be that we have time—“

“The Scions won’t be back with everyone until tomorrow anyway,” you say quickly. It feels just as selfish and forbidden as all your trysts to ask for this, but by the gods, you couldn’t help yourself. “Surely we can find succor in Amity.” 

“I would offer Tomra’s hospitality, but, well, Amity will have better sized beds,” Korutt laughs. 

The Exarch frowns—your arm is still around him, resting at the small of his back, and you find yourself lingering there, stealing these touches without permission like a child sneaking candy. 

“Perhaps a night’s respite would do us well,” he murmurs, then, with more force, “you certainly will need your rest before we ascend Mt. Gulg.” 

For once, you are more than happy to acquiesce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ran a little fast-and-loose with canon on the linkpearls/biology/canon timeline. Nothing too divergent, just have plans i want to do. >;3  
> if you like what i do here, please sub to my ao3/this fic, as i won't be posting updates anywhere else but twitter!


	17. and love you shall find.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _The Exarch speaks as if he will not get another chance, as if this was truly your last opportunity to speak with unfettered honesty._
>> 
>> _And so, you decide to be honest yourself._
> 
> No new CWs apply. 

_“i little esteeme to see your visage and figure,_  
 _little do i regard the night and darknesse thereof,_  
 _for you are my only light.”_  
|| the story of cupid and psyche as related by apuleius ||

* * *

Nearly the entire village of Amity was asleep when you returned from your errands in Tomra, every light darkened and the shutters on all the small shacks closed tight against the everlasting Light. 

All save for Dulia Chai, who nurses what appears to be a cup of hot cocoa at the bar, her head bobbing in drowsiness over the crude handmade mug.

“Oh, my dears!” she titters as you and the Exarch stumble in, dusty and punchdrunk from escorting Korutt back to his village. “You look positively dead on your feet!” 

“The Tholl family needed time to refine the earthseed,” The Exarch explains. He leans heavily on his staff, and you pin your arms to your sides to keep from reaching out to him again.“Forgive me, but is there any place we might recuperate?” 

“Why, yes!” Dulia’s face alights. “There isn’t much room in the village, but there is a shack left and one bed—“

“My apologies,” you interrupt, “but you said _one_ bed?” 

She positively _giggles_ in the face of your horror. 

“Well, with the way you two look at each other… oh, was I misreading things?” she murmurs to herself, sable ears falling. 

_Where’s a Sin Eater when you need one,_ you think furiously to yourself. Surely it could not be _that_ obvious.

You are stunned into silence, but by some miracle the Exarch finds his voice. “Amity’s accommodations are more than gracious, and I believe I speak for the both of us when I say we are immeasurably grateful.” His tone is pitched an octave higher than usual. “We will… make do with what is available.”

You had heard him discuss battle plans with more joy in his voice.

Dulia leads you to your sleeping arrangements for the night; it is surpassingly simple, one room with naught but a distressingly small bed and an attached lavatory. She leaves you with two bowls of food, cold now but still delicious: some manner of curry, likely spices pilfered from the dwarves, and stringy meat which reminds you far too much of the stew you shared with Alisaie and Tesleen.

You both sit on the floor across from one another, eating your meal in shared silence.

“Exarch,” you say at length, setting aside your finished bowl. “I have slept on the floor far more nights than I can count, I am happy to—“

He holds a hand up. “You are to kill a Lightwarden on the morrow,” he says seriously, “I _insist_ you take the bed.” 

You frown, bristling at being ordered so. “You are nearly dead on your feet, old man, and I will not see you suffer on my account.“

He gives you a wry smile. “I do not need nearly as much sleep as you, Warrior.” 

“You may be old, but you are _not_ immortal,” you huff. “At least, as far as I’m aware.” 

He sighs, setting his spoon in his half-empty bowl with a clatter. “The fate of the First—and that of the Source—rests upon your shoulders. I have done all I could to deliver you to this moment safely, so grant me this final boon. I would not rest if I knew you were not.” 

You throw up your arms. “I didn’t ask for you to—! By the Twelve,” you scowl, then feel a hot blush sweeping over your features at your next thought, “Surely we can… I mean, if… that is, if _you_ are amenable to such a compromise…”

“A compromise?” His full mouth parts, and you can feel his eyes beneath the shadow of his hood studying your features, searching for an explanation.

“We could… well.” You gesture fruitlessly to the measly bed. “Share.”

“Oh,” he breathes. _“Oh.”_

“Forget I said anything—“ you stammer, looking pointedly away, “t-t-there must be a… a better solution… perhaps… perhaps there is a charm, to make the floor more comfortable?” 

“If you… if you are amicable to sharing the bed,” the Exarch speaks slowly, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously, “I… I am not… opposed to such a solution.” He bows his head, speaking to the floor rather than you. “The gods know we have shared much and more than merely a bed.” 

You blush to the very tips of your ears. _Why_ in the seven hells were you so embarrassed now? This man had seen you at your most depraved and desperate, all with your explicit, gods above, _enthusiastic_ consent… and the idea of sharing nothing more than a bed with him made your face feel hotter than any of Ifrit’s nails.

Truly this land had rendered all your senses backwards and upside down.

The shower is little more than a rusty spigot, a wooden bucket, and icy cold water, but it is enough to rinse off the dust of travel. You each take a turn washing up, and you pace the breadth of the room as he slips into the lavatory. As you wait, you find shutters that clap over the windows, sending the room into complete darkness save for the lone oil lamp. You were wearing little more than your smalls and a bandeau—you hadn’t packed anything more casual than your armor—and have never felt more naked in his presence.

The door opens. The Exarch had donned his robes again—but he halts in the doorway, mouth parted. 

You shiver as you stare at one another.

“F-Forgive me,” he stammers, “I… the reality of the situation had not… _quite_ sunk in until this moment.” 

“The situation?” 

“Being in… such tight quarters,” he mumbles, “with _you.”_

You stare at him, incredulous. “Exarch, if this is truly uncomfortable for you—“

“It is _not_ uncomfortable, it is…” he wrings his hands, taking a seat on the opposite side of the bed. The mattress dips down from his weight. “It is… a lot to take in,” he whispers. 

You took a deep breath. His words here and now were so at _odds_ with the way he’d treated you the rest of the day, downright flirtatious at points. He had been so personably, so _friendly…_

… And now he looked as if he would rather be anywhere but here.

“Your wounds,” he finally speaks, rough and low. “I would tend to them, before we retire.” 

You blink in surprise, though he spoke truly. A myriad of scrapes and bruises covered your body, although the pain had gone forgotten with the quandary of sleeping at hand.

“Will you be alright?” you frown. “I know well how tasking healing can be. I have a healing kit—“

“Allow me,” he says gently. “If you think I would rest knowing you were not, I can relax even less knowing you are wounded and I can still do something about it.”

He speaks with such intensity, such _warmth—_

And then the hard gemstone facets of his hand skim over your shoulder, and you can think of little at all but his touch.

He edges closer to you, summoning warm aether like a balm and hovering over your wounds. You stay silent, shivering at the feeling of the bruises healing, the cuts and scrapes knitting into faint scars under his touch.

“Exarch,” you finally murmur. “I…” you sigh, looking down at the wooden floors, as if they held the answers to your questions. “Forgive me for saying so, but you… after everything we’ve been through, is this truly so… _revolting_ to you?” 

He frowns, his hand moving from where it hovered over your arm to your chin, tipping your face up to his. “What is?”

“Being with me,” you whisper, loathing the quiver in your voice. 

“You think that I— no,” he tells you, brushing your hair from your face, still damp from your makeshift bath. “No, it is the furthest _possible_ thing from that.”

“So why do you speak with such… dread?” 

He moves down to your cheek, channeling aether to heal a scratch there—shallow and superficial, but you bask in his touch regardless. “Such circumstances remind me of that which I yearn to have—if we were not who we were, set with such myriad problems and duties.”

“What do you want?” you breathe, scarce more than a ghost of sound. 

He smiles down at you tenderly—but beneath it, there is a raw pain, ancient and dark. “Surely, after all this time, you must know.”

You can’t find your words, but neither can you bid your body to move.

It wasn’t that you didn’t know.

It was that you could hardly bring yourself to believe it. 

He bends over you, focusing on a gash across your thigh, his warm breath washing over your goosebumped skin as he works. Absent-mindedly you rest your hand on his shoulder as he works, yearning—as you so often did these days—to pull back the cowl and card your fingers through his hair. You had felt it before—silken and long, brushing against your bare skin like gossamer. Did he keep it in a braid, as G’raha Tia had? Were there scarlet feline ears beneath the cowl after all?

“There,” he finally says. His voice is thin with exhaustion. “If I missed anything, please inform me.”

Quickly, before he can retreat, you catch his hands in yours. “Thank you,” you tell him. “You treat me with far more kindness than I deserve.”

“It is but a fraction of what you deserve, Warrior,” he whispers.

You are caught in one another’s gaze—you _yearn_ to lean forward, to bridge the gap between you, to slide into his lap and—

“I rob you of your rest,” he says gently, slipping his hands free from yours.

He was all too right, but sleep had never been further from your mind.

“I’ll turn the lantern off,” you tell him. “I don’t imagine those robes are comfortable to sleep in.” 

He laughs gently. “You’d be surprised,” he murmurs, but he watches as you turn down the lantern, casting the both of you in complete darkness. 

You tuck yourself into the bed; the sheets are worn and ragged, likely pilfered from Eulmore, but they are comfortable enough, and the duvet is thick and warm. You find yourself holding your breath as you hear the Exarch move behind you—stripping off his robes, setting them aside. 

And then, the mattress dips as he slips under the covers with you.

“Apologies,” he mumbles. He grabs your shoulder by accident, yanking away as if burned. It is scarcely large enough to hold one person, let alone two, and there’s no way for you both to comfortably lie there without touching one another. 

Gods, you should just take the floor. Better that than lying awake, wondering what he might do. 

What he might _not_ do.

“You can be closer,” you whisper, heart racing, “if it is more comfortable for you.”

His body shifts. “I would not wish to presume,” he says softly. 

Remembering his words earlier and finding a semblance of courage in them, you stretch your hand out behind you, your hand skimming over his bare chest. “I don’t mind,” you assure him. 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then turns towards you, winding an arm around your waist. The broad planes of his chest molds against your back. “Is this too—?”

“Mm.” You find yourself automatically pressing against him. He was delightfully warm, the crystal only a few degrees colder than his skin. “S’good.” 

He tucks his head against your shoulder, warm breath ghosting over you. “Rest easy, Warrior,” he murmurs, carding a hand through your hair. 

* * *

Raha’s heart races as he holds her. 

Never had he struggled with so much conflict within himself, his soul a riot of contradictions. He shouldn’t be in the same _bed_ as her. He should have stood his ground. The gods had a cruel sense of humor, giving him a taste of normalcy before he would pay the price for his profane existence. 

Just as he thinks she may have fallen asleep, the Warrior speaks. 

“The final Lightwarden will be killed tomorrow,” she murmurs into the dark in that self-assured, inconsequential way of hers. Of one possessed with the unwavering certainty of a godkiller. “And I cannot help but wonder… what will become… of _this._ ” As if there was any question of what she spoke of, the Warrior slides her hand up to his, tangling their fingers together. “Of what we’ve wrought.” 

“What would you like to happen?” Raha asks carefully.

She cradles his hand with unbearable gentleness—his crystal one, the one he has shirked the most—and lifts his knuckles to her lips. “I want to see you,” she whispers, “I want to shed light upon these lies we have tangled ourselves in. I find myself…” the warm ghost of her laugh drifts across his hand, “rather _taken_ with you.” 

Oh.

_Oh._

It is too much. 

He is not enough for her. 

He _cannot_ be enough for her.

She is voicing his worst fears, his darkest desires, and he is helpless against them. 

Raha buries a sob into the gentle curve of her back, defenseless against the agonizing grief. Of all he had done, this was the most unforgivable. 

Tricking her, _manipulating_ her into caring for him.

When he was unable, at the most base level, to provide her with anything in return.

“Exarch,” she gasps, turning in the loose cage of his arms to face him, her gentle hands on his face, wiping at his tears. “I did not mean to offend, I—“

“Forgive a sentimental old man,” he mumbles, reaching for her with blind instinct. She tucks her body close against his, no space between he and she, and she presses gentle, soft kisses on his cheeks, his nose, stealing upwards to his forehead, nuzzling the fringe of his hair.

“Mayhap,” she murmurs, “words are not suited for us.”

She slants her lips over his.

Every kiss with her feels like the first. Blinding, holy, sacred. Raha falls heedless into her, his mouth parting without reservation or question. The Warrior slides her bare leg over the bony crook of his hip, swallowing his gasp as his growing hardness brushes against the soft warmth of her. She breaks away from him, her lips sliding down his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. Her hands are tentative, exploring his naked body in slow, gentle swipes. 

He dosen’t have the strength left in him to stop her—and it feels unfathomably _wonderful,_ to be touched, to be treasured by her. 

He is powerless, helpless. Surrendering to her touch as if he could do no else. 

She pushes back the coverlet, the cold air sweeping over his bare body in a gust. He feels her tricky fingers working down his smalls, and he lets out a bark of surprise when he feels her move down his body, mouth leaving hot little bites over his stomach.

And then, before he can protest, she is taking him into her mouth. 

He wishes desperately that he could see her. See the curtain of hair splayed across his skin, the tender expression on her face. He settles for raking his hand through her hair, forcing his hips to still as she sucks and works him. He is vulnerable, pleading, arching into her as she hums around his shaft. 

Raha is at her mercy, as he has ever been. 

When he think he cannot take any more, she draws upwards, her mouth colliding against his in a wet mess of tongue and teeth, and he’s pleading her name as she tugs aside her smalls, the fat tip of him sliding against her. She takes his breath away when she slides down onto him in one smooth movement, a roll of her hips and a satisfied purr leaving her as she hilts him. 

She braces herself on his chest, her movements _agonizingly_ slow. Savoring every ilm of him, taking her time. So oft he had determined the pace of their lovemaking, and it seems she wanted to set her own. Before he can stop himself, he finds himself tangling his hands in hers, and she pins them above his head as she rocks her hips forward.

It felt less as if their roles were reversed and more so…

 _Equalized._

She purrs his title—a fetching sound despite, but bared as he is, he feels that unconquerable urge to correct her, to tell her what was true.

He has to bite his tongue to keep from saying it. 

She moves in the slow, steady way of the tides crashing over the broken-shell beaches, taking him to the very hilt again and again, her soft voice rising as she works. He slips a hand from hers and draws it up her thigh to her belly, working his thumb down until—

“Oh, _heavens,”_ she sobs, bending over him like a willow, hair curtaining his face as she finds his mouth. Her kisses are just as languid as the movement of her hips, her hand in his clenching tighter still, refusing to let go. “Don’t stop,” she pleads against him—he greedily swallows the sound of her voice. “Don’t ever— _Exarch—“_

He can feel the telltale flutter of her around him. Like a hurricane breaking over the shore, her pace grows frantic, forehead pressed against his as she whimpers and begs. He chokes on a moan—drowning in everything he wants to say, everything he _should_ tell her.

How much he loved her.

How much she had given him.

The myriad ways he had torn her apart.

Instead Raha buries his face into her shoulder, littering the silken flesh with dozens of kisses, gasping her name into her ear as if it could possibly be enough. 

She cries out when she draws out his release, all her small muscles pumping him relentlessly as she convulses and writhes, and he thrusts up desperately into her, cheeks damp with tears as he draws both arms around her to hold her tight, a vain, fruitless attempt to keep her here forever.

She lies limp in his arms, her breathing steadying with her head tucked beneath his chin.

“Would you believe me,” she giggles breathlessly, “if I said I _didn’t_ intend on seducing you this night?” 

He kisses her forehead, smiling despite himself. “I wouldn’t, but I shall take your word for it.” He turns onto his side, taking her with him—she cuddles even closer into his arms, evidently having no plans to move.

As her breathing evens out, exhaustion finally winning over, he hums to her gently—partly to soothe her to sleep, and to keep himself from saying things he knew he shouldn’t.

He feels her lips move against his chest—directly over his heart.

Muffled and inaudible, but he fears he knows what she speaks.

_I love—_

Raha screws his eyes tight against the pain, and knows it will be a long, sleepless night for him.

* * *

You wake cold and alone.

The breath rushes out of you in one wild gasp, fumbling for the sheets, bereft of any warmth save yours. He had been here, you _knew_ it—

But the Exarch’s robes are gone, alone with any sign he had ever been there. 

You collapse back down into the mattress with a petulant groan. You are so tired of waking up alone in cold beds, missing him like a thorn in your side.

And, truth be told, you could not remember _ever_ having slept so well.

The village of Amity is only beginning to stir, and you don your travel-soiled armor and sling your greatsword against your back, so used to the weight now that it felt like nothing. 

One more hunt.

One last Warden.

As you had vowed to do so long ago in Eulmore, you would put Vauthry to the sword—finally fulfilling his request for one last dance from his vaunted Honeybee

You would be Norvrandt’s weapon for the final time, and if the gods had any mercy, it would be enough. 

Dulia-Chai, as if reading the question unspoken on your face, immediately begins speaking as you enter the tavern.

“The Exarch retrieved the earthseed from Tomra,” she tells you. “And my dear tells me the Talos is in the final stages of construction! But… well, the Exarch seemed quite winded after that exertion, poor dear."

“Where?” You blurt out, worry overtaking you.

She gestures to the cliffside, and before she finishes speaking you find yourself walking in a daze towards the ocean, a flood of raw nervousness overtaking you. 

He had been worn thin enough by your exertions yesterday. He should have waited for you, godsdammit, he _knew_ better—

You have a hundred insults and demands of him on your tongue as you pick your way to the boulder overlooking the ocean. 

But your heart softens when you find him.

In all your time together, you had never seen the Exarch truly at rest, succumbing fully to the vulnerabilities of sleep. His face is slack, leaned up against the rockface as carelessly as a young man, not someone several times your elder. He could have been a young adventurer taking his reprieve from whatever tasks at hand.

So much like—

When you wake him, he mumbles something incoherent under his breath, before shaking his head roughly.

“Forgive me,” the Exarch murmurs, “I was… lost in a dream.”

He is vulnerable—perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from his distance to the Tower—but sitting on the cliffside, shells crunching beneath your feet, the Exarch speaks openly and freely.

And he loses himself.

He tells you of a _someone_ —that person he could not afford to lose, the one you had long suspected had been there all along, the one Captain Lyna had spoken of. 

He calls her friend, _inspiration._

He speaks of her with all the love and kindness you had long since wanted for yourself, and you find yourself puzzling over the meaning in his words.

Your first instinct is that it must be Captain Lyna herself—she was the only one who had been close with him all this time, _surely_ it was her.

But something within you sternly says no. There is nothing familial in the way he describes the adventure he would take if he had the chance—only a wistfulness so tender it ached in his soft _“oh,”_ in the gentle smile that swept unbidden over his features. 

But why, when he knew there would be scant time to speak before the battle, would he tell you of another woman? Did he truly think so little of what had been forged between you? Or—

Or—

Emet-Selch’s sardonic mocking comes back to you—a bewildering conversation shared at the bottom rung of the Ladder, words you had replayed in your mind on endless loop.

_“What? Never? Even to you? How very interesting.”_

It is the only explanation which makes sense, and yet it is the very one you fear the most.

The one you had dreaded being true from the very beginning of the inextricable knots you wove around one another.

You yearn, more than ever, to tug back his hood. You had told yourself last night that no matter who he was, it did not matter, for he had your heart and soul entirely—

And his identity wouldn’t change that.

But you needed to know. Needed to see for yourself the exact hue of the eyes that had been watching you all this while. 

And if they were truly the deep scarlet of Allagan blood. 

The Exarch speaks as if he will not get another chance, as if this was truly your last opportunity to speak with unfettered honesty. 

And so, you decide to be honest yourself.

* * *

Her arm shoots out before he can depart, locking hard around his wrist with the hard grip of a warrior with no intention of letting him leave so easily. “A moment if you would, Exarch.”

The Exarch’s heart races. He has said too much—it was a mistake to speak with such honesty and he knew it, but gods above, he simply could not help himself where she was concerned, not when the razor’s edge of the guillotine felt so near his neck.

And so he had confessed in the only way he could, speaking of her as if she did not sit beside him, as if it had not been her all this while.

And so the Warrior surprises him, as she always does.

She gently stands on tip-toe and presses her lips to his.

It is gentle and chaste. Quick and fleeting, she rocks back onto her heels before he can reciprocate, peering up at him. 

“You speak as if this is the moment for last chances,” she murmurs, “and I wished to take one last thing for myself.”

Would that she knew precisely how weighty these last-second glances and touches meant to him.

There is too much to say and not enough words with which to do it. 

He owes her so much. His life is one measly offering on top of all that he must atone for, there was so, so much she needed to hear. 

And yet.

The Exarch says nothing. He takes her hand in his for the last time and walks with her back to Amity, not letting go of her until they cross the threshold into the misfit village.

To their surprise, the rest of the Scions have arrived with their small legion when they arrive. She lets her hand linger in his for a moment, before darting over to Y’shtola when summoned. 

The Exarch lingers on the fringes; he feels much revived, and a measure of relief at having finally told her what little he could, but the tasks at hand were not meant for him. Such was the work of heroes, which would line the annals of history when all was said and done. His role, meager though it was, would not be called forth quite yet.

And, in a way, he feels he has stolen too much from her. The precious gifts she gave him on his last night on this star lingered on him, nigh physical brands as much as the crystal on his skin or the ropeburn which so often marred hers. 

The Talos is nothing short of a monstrosity. The Exarch’s heart is in his throat as he watches the mountains break apart and then coalesce, cleaved together by luminous aether as it groans to life. Just as he suspected, the sin eaters descend upon it like wasps attacking a threat to the hive, working seamlessly as one unit. 

He grits his teeth. The battle would be hard won, so it seemed—

But he should have known better than to underestimate the Warrior’s effect on the world. 

Though they claimed, time and time again, indifference and downright malevolence with regards to mankind’s myriads problems, the faefolk make their appearance. In the distance, glimmering like an autumn leaf, Feo Ul burns against the Everlasting Light, their anger audible even from this distance. 

The Warrior shrinks down beside him, muttering something like “I think they’re mad at me,” and he cannot help but grin, letting himself feel the quiet victory in his heart.

And then she is gone, taking off toward the mountainside at a full sprint, leaving him to linger as he watches her depart.

It is easy to lose himself in the throngs of the people who congregated to watch the battle. They speak of hope, of dreams—their wishes were so close to attainment, the very last battle almost won. 

And when he hears the beginning clash between sin eater and Scion, the Exarch tucks himself out of sight behind one of the shacks and whispers to himself.

_“Vanish.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _whispers_ and there was only one bed...  
> thank you to [Semilune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semilune/pseuds/The%20Rose%20Mistress) for helping me workshop the Amity business! please check out their work, she's a phenomenal writer.


	18. burn bright again (and live.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > _“The combined power of every Lightwarden is too terrible a burden for any one soul to bear…”_
>> 
>> _The sword was in his hand, he could feel it._
>> 
>> _“…And so, I shall relieve you of it.”_
> 
> CW for angst, existential despair, discussion of canonical character death + resulting grief. 

_“delay not, delay not! the hour is at hand;  
__the earth shall dissolve, and the heavens shall fade.  
__the dead, small and great, in the judgement shall stand;  
__what power, then, o sinner, shall lend thee its aid?”  
_|| 19th century hymn ||

* * *

The Exarch feels like a wraith.

A ghost of a misbegotten timeline, cursed to wander the wastes. Wrung dry of all substance, each step up the perilous mountainside is more difficult than the last. He had followed close behind—not close enough to be seen by the Warrior and her companions—but close enough he watched the bloated corpses of slain Sin Eaters desiccate into aetherial nothingness.

And each one he saw sent an icy chill of terror down his spine.

As if he recognizes himself in those distended faces.

Quartz and sandstone crunches under his soles as he walks. The Exarch is not a young man—and in all his days, he has never felt so tired. Every second of his lifetime weighs upon his shoulders, no longer buoyed by the Tower’s presence. The leash between he and the Crystal Tower was tight, a slipknot clinching tighter and tighter around his throat.

He would hang himself on it before the day’s end.

He never overly concerned himself with the particulars of death. Far more important were one’s actions in the here and now—what occurred in the Lifestream or beyond was of little importance to him. Scholars and philosophers had always speculated on the specifics of death, but to Raha it had forever been an immutable fact of life, and he never found cause to defy it.

Well—he had certainly defied death. In a great number of ways.

Surely Death himself felt cheated by now. An entire Calamity wrested from his clutches, hundreds of thousands of souls on Norvrandt, Raha’s very own soul—

 _—her_ soul, an everlasting torch in the darkest of nights.

The steps are treacherous, and he is weakening by the moment. He can hear battle ahead and its indistinguishable cacophony of clashing swords and spells cast. He is possessed of the impulse to dart ahead, to lend his aid to the Scions and the Warrior…

… But he cannot take such a risky indulgence. She had never needed him so much as in this moment, though she knew it not.

He had borne witness to a godsforsaken timeline, their misbegotten progeny waking him from his slumber upon the Emperor’s Throne. He did not handle her death well. Her undoing in itself was one matter, but the horrible indignity of it, the _unfairness_ of it all—

He nearly locked himself back in the Tower then. Screamed til his voice was rendered raw, railing against every single one of the Twelve, his most vile of curses saved for Hydaelyn herself.

How dare she mark this woman as her own—force her into this life of servitude without so much as asking, and then leave her to die this tragic, ignoble death, dooming entire _generations_ with her demise?

How dare the Allagans’ hand weigh upon him so heavily, lulling him with promises of grandeur and tales of heroism into that slumber, only to wake him into a world which was never meant to be?

He shattered countless relics, none of the breaking or crumbling of priceless artifacts serving to ebb the fury within him. Sobbed himself hoarse til there were no tears left, struck his fist into the immutable crystal walls until his knuckles bled and his hands were bruised beyond use.

And above all, he wept.

Wept with uselessness, helplessness, despair, _dread._

He had never asked for this. Despite what his peers said of him, Raha never wanted to be the guiding star in a way the Warrior was. He knew himself well enough to know he was no hero. He could hope, at most, to win some mention in a footnote or margin of his tales. _And the Warrior of Light consulted the Baldesion Historian G’raha Tia..._

It was days before he went back to Ironworks’ camp. On that day, G’raha Tia stayed in the Tower, cowardly and fearful of what was to come.

What would become the Crystal Exarch departed, possessed of something greater than himself.

Though he may be no hero, he would pretend until he became something—some strange abomination—of truth.

For all the lives lost on the Source. The Students of Baldesion laid low, the Sons of Saint Coinach destroyed.

For the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, who followed their cause into death.

For the final wish of the Ancients carried forward into time.

And above all…

He would become this thing for _her._

And so he went to the First, carried by the wishes of the Eighth Umbral Era, transported on the wings of time itself to a world just as desolate and fraught with strife as their own.

That too, took Raha by storm. The terrible knowledge he must endure one hundred long years until he had the _chance_ to meet her again. A mere opportunity to right these myriad wrongs, to bring this story to the conclusion it so deserved.

In one of those darkest of nights, the Tower beckoned him.

Gentle yet firm.

 _Call upon my aid,_ they told him.

_Become what you must._

And thus he lashed his life to the Tower itself, the very fiber of his being inextricable from it.

Only Emperor Xande had performed such a defiant act in his endless thirst for immortality, his complete rejection of Magus Noah’s curse.

They had called him merely _Exarch_ before. A title misappropriated from the now defunct Church of the First Light, by virtue of his quiet nature and his robes bearing similarity to their clergymen.

But when the first slivers of crystal climbed up the Exarch’s hand, they formed a new one for him.

_The Crystal Exarch._

It was spoken with a mix of reverence and fear. His affliction was far too close to that of stoneblight, but he lived and moved even as his flesh was rendered seamless with the crystal.

Countless lives squandered. Bodies eaten and regurgitated by the endless horde of the sin eaters. And those that were not fortunate enough to be consumed were instead transmuted into something far more vile, more horrifying, slaughtering their own in that endless conquest for aether.

It became paramount for a city to be built. Not just _any_ city—years of studying the ancient architecture of foregone civilizations gave Raha just enough guidance to know the bones upon which such a thing must be built, and with the combined technology of Allag, the vestiges left by Ironworks, and sheer ingenuity brought about by incalculable hardship, their dream came true, year by year, construction after construction.

It never felt like his city, as much as everyone deemed it to be so. Without anyone knowing, Raha always ensured it would run entirely without his presence.

But at the halfway mark in his extended life, he was forced to put something more than himself into the Crystarium.

After he saved the young Viis from the wreckage of what had been once her home—her silver hair stained scarlet from the sheer amount of gore— Lyna would not part from him. She screamed as if being murdered when he tried to extract her from his arms, burying her small, tear-strewn face into his robes when he finally relented.

“Would you mind tending her for a while?” The head chirurgeon asked of him, an air of exasperation in her voice. “It will take some time, to find someone who can care for her.”

The Exarch stared back at her with unfathomable fear. “I haven’t the faintest inkling of _how,”_ he whispered.

Mothers and fathers and grandparents were summoned, each painstakingly explaining to him the inner workings of parenthood. But it was an art which defied explanation -- one which was learned through every meal prepared, every mistake and misstep solidifying into “things which worked” and “things which didn’t.”

He never told Lyna how much he feared being her guardian. It felt bizarre for such life to be entrusted to him; he was all-too aware of how fleeting and fragile life was, and that she would be ripped from his arms just as quickly as she had been put there.

But she would have no other. And so he tried.

Every day, he tried.

Despite the odds, she thrived under his care. Plagued with nightmares and fears and anxieties, she fought them all back with a simple-minded determination. Her tiny body simply refused to be shackled by her own trauma.

He had never known such pride, such _joy_ as when he was her caretaker.

Out of all his duties, it was the one he savored the most.

That was not to say his strange tenure as a parent was not without its trials. Lyna, as any child was wont to do, rebelled against his rules (few though they were) constantly. Tested every limit to find out how far she could go, and spun into a rage when he met these acts of mutiny with a smile and a weary laugh.

She asked so many questions. Inquisitive and starving for knowledge, she as no other knew when he was being deceptive. Only when she reacted in front of the former Captain of the Guard—a Viis like herself, who took her to the side and gave her several stern words—did she relent, but the Exarch always knew when she was growing tired of his subterfuge.

He could see it in those eyes, as if leaves plucked from Lakeland oaks. The scrunch of her nose in distaste. The way she crossed her arms tight over her chest.

He stayed even busier when she finally moved from the Tower to quarters in Rapture. He had underestimated just how much time he had devoted to parenthood, and his young ward was busy living her own life, making her own name in this world.

There were only a handful of brief decades between then and when he would first begin his summonings.

A righteous clamor—a voice, terrible and beautiful, rings across the mountainside, grounding himself down in reality. 

The Warrior had met with Vauthry, and the final struggle had begun.

The Exarch quickens his pace up the cliffside, grateful his crystal hand could not blister, for he clutched his staff like a lifeline as he strode onward.

A hundred years were all coming to an end.

A century of waiting, finally over.

He listens to the sounds of battle—the screech of steel-against-steel, the ringing of metal being struck. Listens carefully for any sound of her, if he should be needed.

He is nearly to the precipice now—his heart beats hard in his chest, labored and exhaustive against the confines of crystal.

One final blow, deafening with its might—

She splits the daylight open, exposing what lies beyond—the sunless sea, the velvet night sky dotted with stars and constellations.

And he is swept with nightfall.

Ah, to see the night sky one last time before the end of everything. Just before the dais of Vauthry’s temple, the Exarch tips his head back to gaze upon the velvet firmament. The fire of the stars refuse to be quieted, spangling the sky in a rich, tumultuous expanse.

He prays every soul in Kholusia feels the same relief as he did at the sight.

One minute, two—

And then, the sky begins to turn once more.

He can see her in the distance. She staggers backward, the Light itself surrounding her in a phantasmal aura.

The curtain of the stage rises.

The Exarch strides forward, the Scions gaping as they stare at him, but they part for him—he feels their eyes on him, bewildered and perplexed as he walks to her.

He finds his voice possessed of that same strange vainglory when the Tower took him by storm—

“The combined power of every Lightwarden is too terrible a burden for any one soul to bear…”

The sword was in his hand, he could _feel_ it.

“…And so, I shall relieve you of it.”

He stands before her, and allows himself one last grim smile.

And as he casts the spell, Raha severs the inextricable knot binding them.

* * *

Vauthry’s horror—his self-proclaimed _innocence—_ borders on beautiful.

Slaughtering him feels more like killing an angel than a demon. He is the living embodiment of the razor-thin edge between piety and profanity.

But glorious though he may be, you do not flinch from your duty. Not when so much depends on your sword remaining true, your ability honed to a lethal edge by all the Primals, Ascians, and Wardens you have slaughtered.

Though there is a glory to Vauthry’s brilliance, you could not so easily forget the way he poisoned his own followers. The way he preyed upon the noble intentions of others, twisting them into nothing but ghosts of themselves, tainted from the inside-out by the Sin Eaters.

Turned to gluttony by the threat of starvation.

But all your worst fears materialize so soon after night is restored to Kholusia.

_The Light._

Still, even now, inimitable and unconquered.

You are blinded with it. Deafened to the cries of your teammates as you collapse to the floor, vomit pouring out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. The pure taste of Light which defies description or definition—delicious yet horrifying, cloying and effervescent.

“The combined power of every Lightwarden is too terrible a burden for any one soul to bear…”

Those words.

_That voice._

So familiar in so many ways, emboldened with a power, with a strength you didn’t recognize…

“…And so, I shall relieve you of it.”

With a chime like purest crystal struck, you are enclosed in ley lines—that of a spell being cast.

One great and terrible in its power.

You summon the strength within you to look up from your daze of agony and find yourself staring down the bronzed staff of the Crystal Exarch.

You are caught between relief and fear, not dissimilar to when you were bound before him.

His words are lost on you; you can only make out fractions of his syllables, the Light consuming your senses whole. But they do not sound his own. No—the Exarch speaks with a different voice. Callous and cruel, almost dripping with poisonous mockery.

“Who would remain here in this dying realm when they might go elsewhere and begin anew? Not I. And thus… and thus, did I… _use_ you!”

Perhaps if everything which had transpired between the two of you _hadn’t_ occurred, his words might have broken you.

They certainly threatened to.

You had feared, all along, that you were aught but a pawn in his plans, and your affair had merely been one more indulgence for the man.

So many had betrayed you in your long years as a hero of the realm. One more would not be amiss.

A man who refused to show his face. Who treated you with indifference and ardor in the same breath. One whose appetites ran to the carnivorous under cloak of secrecy. He had the loyalty and love of an entire city, but so too did Vauthry and Ran’jit.

Even compared to Emet-Selch, villainy nigh suited him.

_And yet._

It was not so much that you refused to believe it, no—

You _knew_ it wasn’t true.

Nothing in his actions, nothing in his words made sense. It simply _could_ not be true.

Perhaps it is purest denial which drives you to disbelief.

And then, Y’shtola voices the same doubts.

Her eyes are no longer clouded to the scheme before her.

“He means to take the Light with him into the rift… where he will die.” Her voice is hushed, almost reverent in the face of the truth itself. “From the beginning, he intended to sacrifice himself to save our friend and Norvrandt.”

And a new fear—not of your own demise, not of the concerns of the First, overtakes you by storm.

And it is far, _far worse_ than the Light consuming you.

No.

No, no, no, _no—!_

You reach out our hand automatically—a movement that is slow, agonizing. Every muscle within you contracts in fiery pain, but you must, you _must_ make him stop, he couldn’t do this thing, he couldn’t leave you alone _again_ —

“Worry not,” The Exarch says in that infuriatingly calm tone of his. “Whatever shall become of me, I will be happy and free, safe in the knowledge that I have played my part.”

There is nothing fair in this. This is not justice, this is not divine providence—

As if sensing your rebellion, the Exarch pushes on, the spell building around you intensifying.

With the new wave of aether, a wind catches.

The air sweeping from you and forward—

And in a motion you had so longed to do yourself, the Crystal Exarch’s hood falls from his face.

Russet hair, streaked with silver.

Feline ears, no longer confined by the cowl.

And his eyes…

Sanguine, gentle, blazing with a quiet determination.

The realization does not surprise you as much as it should. It is merely confirmation of that which you suspected—far more concerning was this asinine plan.

His name spills from your lips before you can stop it, one last desperate attempt to stop him.

_“G’raha Tia!”_

It is a hoarse, broken cry you scarcely recognize as your own. Mangled into sobs by the refulgent Light within you.

There is so much to be said and not enough time.

His lips part in surprise, eyes widening in shock.

Had he looked the same when you’d spoken his name in mistake, during your darkest night together?

Gods, you had known _even then._

His gaze falls to the floor. You can see him struggling with himself, a hundred thousand unspoken words between the two of you—

Then, something like regret crosses his features.

As if sensing all the lost opportunity.

“Thank you, for fighting for this world. For believing,” G’raha speaks finally, in a faint, trembling voice. His mouth parts—as if to say something else.

But then his lips settle into determination, his fiery eyes burning into yours.

“Fare you well, my friend—my _inspiration!”_

Would that you possessed the strength to fight back—there must be another way, there _must—_

G’raha Tia closes his eyes, and you fear they will never open again.

But the silence is split wide by a thunderous, echoing _crack._

His fist clenches. You see a dark spot of blood pool at his stomach—

And G’raha Tia staggers forward, before falling to the floor in an unceremonious heap with indignity he did not deserve.

And standing behind him, wielding a long, gilded pistol…

… Emet-Selch watches you with a distant sort of fascination, as if finally seeing the pieces of a puzzle lock into place.

Your senses are occluded by the Light itself, your very strength sapped from you. You are dimly aware of the Ascian speaking, elucidating on all his plans. What the Light does not consume, rage—unfathomable rage against the cruelty of it all— threatens to devour you whole.

A wolf dwelling amongst the flock so long they had grown accustomed to his presence, surprised when he finally reached out and struck.

But you are lucid for one moment when Emet-Selch kneels before you, pinching your chin in his gloved hand with careless cruelty as he considers you.

“Whether you will it or not, your mere existence will serve to engulf the world in Light.” His grin is bloodthirsty, self-satisfied as he portents the vile fate left before you. “Those in your company will likewise turn into sin eaters, and in time you will succumb to your base instincts and hunt innocents to feed on their sweet, _sweet_ aether.”

He leans in closer now, so you cannot mistake his words. His breath washes over you—he smells like decay and mortification. “Those few with the will left to fight may rise up against you. But before your absolute might, they will quickly know despair. _There is no hope! We are finished! Mankind is finished!_ ”

He strokes with your cheek in a cruel imitation of fondness. “Ah, the irony. What Vauthry achieved through bliss, you will achieve through despair.”

You know what he intends to do—that he will take the Exarch—

_G’raha—_

“Emet-Selch,” you spit, the Light dripping from your tongue, rendering your voice strange and clamorous. “Take me instead.”

The Ascian considers you for a long moment, aureate eyes searching yours before dropping his hand from your chin.

“Tempting though that may be, I think not,” he purrs coldly.

Before you can fight back, The Light overtakes you again—far more furious, burning, blazing bright within you—

You drop to the floor, the spent weapon cast aside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the top quote in usage with this scene was inspired by [this artwork](https://twitter.com/yildraws/status/1289238300385918977), the quote is from a hymn, but this artwork is what brought it to mind.  
> the final stretch! we're in it! i'm running a little behind (school, aheh) so don't be surprised if there's a minor delay on ch. 19, but i'm so excited! thank you as always for reading and all the kind comments. <3

**Author's Note:**

> [my carrd.](https://thepapernautilus.carrd.co/)


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